MADAME     SAND 


Philip      M  o  e  /  /  e  r 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Kenneth  Macgowan 


MADAME    SAND 

A  Biographical  Comedy 


SOME   BORZOI  PLAYS  AND 
BOOKS    ABOUT    THE    THEATRE 

WAR 

by  Michael  Artzibashef 

MOLOCH 

by  Beulah  Marie  Dix 

"MORAL" 

by  Ludwig  Thoma 

THE  INSPECTOR-GENERAL 

by  Nicolay  Gogol 

HADDA  PADDA 

by  Godmundur  Kamban 

NJU 

by  Ossip  Dymow 

THE  ART  THEATRE 
by  Sheldon  Cheney 

FOUR  PLAYS  BY  AUGIER 

Preface  by  Brieux 

MR.  GEORGE  JEAN  NATHAN 
PRESENTS 
by  George  Jean  Nathan 


MADAME   SAND 

A  Biographical  Comedy 


BY 

PHILIP  MOELLER 

WITH  A  FOREWORD  £Y  MRS.  FfSKE  AND 
AN  INTRODUCTION  BY  ARTHUR  HOPKINS 


"As  I  have  never  loved  before     .     .     .    ' 


NEW  YORK  :  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF  :  1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
PHILIP    MOELLER 

Published  November  ,1917 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OJ  AMERICA 


Collega 
Library 

PS 

3S.2S" 


/or  wAow  the  play  was  written 
and  to 

ARTHUR  HOPKINS 
for  whom  I  wrote  the  play 


KLAW  &  ERLANGER  AND  GEORGE  C.  TYLER 
Present 

MRS.  FISKE 

-IN— 

"MADAME  SAND" 

A  Three-  Act  Comedy  by  Philip  Moeller. 
Under  the  direction  of  ARTHUR  HOPKINS. 


THE  PLAYERS 
(In  the  order  of  their  appearance.) 

Rosalie    .Jean   Robb 

Madame  de  Musset Muriel  Hope 

Paul  de  Musset Harold  Hendee 

Casimir  Dudevant » Ben  Lewin 

Buloz    Walter   Kingsford 

Heinrich   Heine    Ferdinand    Gottschalk 

Alfred  de   Musset Jose   Ruben 

Madame    Julie    Aurore    Lucille    Amandine    Dudevant 

(George  Sand) Mrs.  Fiske 

Doctor  Guiseppi  Pagello .John  Davidson 

Lucretia  Violente Olin  Field 

Mile.  De  Fleury Marjorie  Hollis 

Mile.  Rolande Imogen  Fairchild 

Milt.  De  Latour Caroline  Kohl 

7ranz  Liszt Owen  Meech 

Frederic  Chopin Alfred  Cross 

Guests  at  the  Reception  of  the  Baron  de  Rothschild — 


PROGRAM  OF  FIRST  PERFORMANCE  AT  THE  ACADEMY  OP  MUSIC, 
BALTIMORE,  OCTOBER  29,  1917 


FOREWORD 

Only  one  man  lias  had  the  wit  to  paint  Aurore 
Dudevant  in  a  few  swift  words — Matthew  Arnold. 

"She  was  like  one  of  the  early  gods,"  he  said — or 
something  like  it.  Only  her  own  hundred  odd  books 
can  give  even  a  faint  understanding  of  this  amazing 
woman.  Among  all  women — this  creature  of  a  thou- 
sand  colors — grande  dame  and  Bohemian — gamine 
and  daughter  of  kings,  soubrette  and  philosopher, 
pagan  and  religieuse,  housefrau  and  mad  lover, 
everyday  hard  worker  and  impassioned  dreamer, 
simpleton  and  sage,  po sense  and  farm  woman,  trag 
edy  queen  and  imp  of  mischief,  Sibyl  and  "big  child," 
evert/thing  that  lives  and  burns  and  flames  m  man 
or  woman,  George  Sand  the  generous,  the  kind,  the 
simple.  What  she  loved  best  in  att  the  world  was 
kindness. 

Your  incorrigibly  brilliant  and  funny  play,  dear 
Mr.  MoeUer,  reached  me  in  the  North  Woods  and  I 
laughed  and  laughed  and  then  when  I  had  quite  fin 
ished  laughing  I  set  out  to  learn  something  of 
George  Sand — something  that  would  give  me  better 
understanding  than  my  superficial  knowledge  of  the 
earlier  flamboyant  novels — or  the  beautiful  peasant 
stories.  But  to  study  your  astonishing  heroine  is 

m 


FOREWORD 

like  swimming  in  the  ocean.  Gather  into  yourself 
all  your  knowledge  of  att  men,  women  and  children 
— unfold  your  entire  "comedie  humaine"  and  George 
will  play  every  part  for  you. 

Something  of  all  mankind  is  hers  and  in  splendor. 
George  who  could  cut  the  hair  from  her  head  to 
offer  it  at  the  feet  of  her  lover.  George  who  could 
mend  furniture  at  four  in  the  morning.  George  who, 
cigar  in  hand,  could  "slip  from  the  balcony  window" 
and  swagger  along  the  darkened  road  for  twenty 
odd  miles  in  the  summer  storm.  George  who  could 
harangue  a  nation  as  well  as  any  man.  George  who 
could  wait  with  her  kind  eyes  watching  for  the  "little 
cat  that  comes  to  us  over  the  roofs" — wonderful, 
wonderful  George  with  the  friendly  smile  almost  al 
ways  playing  around  her  lips.  The  friendly  smile 
that  Heine  loved — ridiculous,  priceless  George. 

And  as  I  came  to  know  her  more  and  love  her 
more  and  more  as  the  most  flagrantly  human  crea 
ture  in  history,  I  began  to  feel  that  we,  you  and  I, 
were  party  to  an  act  of  unforgivable  impertinence 
in  our  conspiracy  to  reveal  your  Aurora  as  we  have 
revealed  her.  But  this  feeling  passed — and  passed 
because  I  continued  to  know  her  more  and  more  and 
love  her  more  and  more  and  in  this  ever  increasing 
love  and  knowledge  I  know  that  in  no  other  way  can 
she  be  revealed. 

Minnie  Maddern  Fiske 


[8] 


INTRODUCTION 

In  "Madame  Sand"  the  author  has  brought  us 
past  lives  free  from  the  odor  of  camphor  and  the 
rattle  of  moth  balls.  His  resurrection  of  famous 
characters  is  worked  with  a  touch  that  brings  them 
really  to  life.  It  is  not  the  efficacy  of  the  embalming 
fluid  but  the  glow  of  life  that  he  has  breathed  into 
them. 

The  biographical  drama  usually  has  the  vigor  of 
an  obituary.  Instead  of  "Here  Is"  it  is  invariably 
"Here  Lies."  But  not  so  with  George  and  Alfred 
and  Pagello  and  Chopin  and  all  the  others.  They 
live  and  breathe  and  seek.  And  in  their  seeking  we 
find  all  that  is  at  once  human  and  tragic.  Can  one 
feel  that  George  is  seeking  liberty  or  is  it  liberation? 
Is  it  not  the  hungry  reaching-out  for  some  new  con 
tact  that  will  explain  all  the  mysteries  of  life?  Is  it 
not  the  dissatisfied  soul — not  dissatisfied  with  what 
it  has  but  with  what  it  feels  ?  Is  not  the  same  quest 
for  the  unknown  to  be  found  in  Alfred  and  Chopin 
and  to  a  less  degree  in  Pagello? 

Are  these  not  souls  between  mediocrity  and  great 
ness  who  scoff  at  the  conventions  of  one  and  are  lost 
in  the  mazes  of  the  other?  Is  it  not  a  form  of 
growth,  of  casting  off,  of  revolution? 

[9] 


INTRODUCTION 

In  the  sunset — by  the  sea — at  the  mountain  peak 
— in  a  stranger's  arms  George  is  seeking — seeking 
what  ? 

Perhaps  Zoe  Akins  has  found  the  answer.  In  her 
play  "Baby  Bunting"  the  deserted  mother  sings  to 
her  child,  "Bye  Bye,  Baby  Bunting,  Daddy's  gone 
a-hunting."  The  child  asks  "what  for."  The 
mother  answers  "God  knows." 

God  knows  what  tormented  the  restless  George. 
Only  a  sensualist  would  think  her  scourge  a  physi 
cal  one.  Only  an  angel  would  think  it  a  spiritual 
one.  So  perhaps  she  hung  half  way  between,  a 
battle  ground  of  conflicting  desires,  and  in  the  con 
flict  was  born  all  the  expression  she  left  behind. 

To  the  author  rare  credit  must  be  accorded  for 
bringing  out  so  vividly  the  struggles — pathetic  and 
comic — of  George  Sand,  one  of  the  great  dissatis 
fied. 

ARTHUR  HOPKINS 


[10] 


CHARACTERS 

ROSALIE,  Maid  at  Mme.  Sand's. 

PAUL  DE  MUSSET,  Alfred's  brother. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET,  Alfred's  mother. 

CASIMIR  DUDEVANT,  Mme.  Sand's  husband. 

BULOZ,  Editor  of  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes. 

HEINRICH  HEINE, 

ALFRED  DE  MUSSET, 

MME.  JULIE  AURORE  LUCILLE  AMANDINE  DUDEVANT 

— GEORGE  SAND. 
DR.    GIUSEPPE    PIETRO    PAGELLO,    Mme.'s    Italian 

Physician. 

LUCREZIA  VIOLENTE,  His  Mistress. 
MLLE.  DE  FLEURY, 
MLLE.   ROLANDE, 
MLLE.  DE  LATOUR, 
FRANZ  LISZT, 
FREDERICK  CHOPIN, 

and 
GUESTS  at  the  reception  of  Baron  de  Rothschild. 


The  scenes  are: 

Act  I 

The  farewell  supper  at  Mme.  Sand's  apartment 
in  the  Quartier,  Paris,  1833. 

Act  II 
Mme.  Sand's  apartment  in  Venice,  1834. 

Act  III 

The  reception  for  Chopin  at  Baron  de  Roths 
child's,  Paris. 


ACT  I 
Rosalie's  Omelet 


ACT  I 

The  Scene 

MME.  SAND'S  apartment  m  the  Quartier,  Paris, 
1833.  It  is  a  large  studio-like  room.  Through  a 
long  window  in  the  rear  one  sees  the  roofs  of  the  city 
and  the  streets  beyond  with  the  -first  lamps  lit.  In 
the  far  distance  are  the  twin  towers  of  Notre  Dame. 
The  room  is  a  shrine  of  literary  Bohemia.  The  fur 
nishings  are  of  bizarre  incongruity.  An  ornate 
Japanese  screen  barely  hides  an  old-fashioned  rub 
ber  bathtub,  an  India  chest  shows  its  design  of 
arabesque  in  the  shadow  of  a  bed  couch  near  a  piano 
of  the  period.  In  the  window  are  several  cages  m 
which  canaries  are  asleep.  On  the  balcony  is  a  sort 
of  little  conservatory  enclosed  in  glass.  About  the 
place  are  trunks,  half  finished  in  the  packing  and 
clothes,  hats  and  shawls  are  scattered  about.  Books 
are  everywhere.  In  the  center  a  table  is  set  for  sup 
per.  The  place  is  dim  with  candle  light  and  shad 
ows.  The  atmosphere  is  confused,  that  of  an  im 
promptu  feast  on  the  brink  of  a  sudden  farewell. 
ROSALIE,  MME.  SAND'S  servant,  a  pretty  blunt  coun 
try  woman  of  about  thirty,  does  not  know  that  the 
curtain  has  risen.  She  is  seated  at  MADAME'S  writing 
desk  and  at  the  moment  is  deeply  puzzled,  attempt- 

[15] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

ing  to  read  the  fifth  chapter  of  MADAME'S  new  novel 
which  is  piled  in  manuscript  before  her.  She  turns 
the  leaves,  one  by  one,  and  is  bored.  The  bell  of  the 
concierge  jangles.  She  reads  on.  Again  the  jang 
ling  of  the  bell.  The  girl  is  oblivious.  The  canaries 
wake  to  a  little  shower  of  song,  then  silence,  then 
footsteps  below  in  the  streets.  ROSALIE  mystified, 
turns  another  page.  MADAME  doesn't  write  for  such 
as  she.  A  knock  at  the  door.  She  jumps  up,  pushes 
the  manuscript  mto  the  rear  of  the  desk  and 
opens  the  door  to  PAUL,  and  MME.  DE  MUSSET.  MME. 
DE  MUSSET  is  an  aristocrat,  a  mother  of  the  old 
regime  who  never  loses  the  quiet  dignity  of  her  man 
ner  even  under  the  stress  of  intense  emotion.  PAUL, 
the  elder  brother  of  a  more  famous  brother,  exists 
only  in  his  own  estimation.  He  hopes  he  is  some 
thing  of  a  gallant  and  doesn't  for  a  moment  doubt 
that  he  is  a  wit. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     {Sinking  mto  a  chair)    Those 
stairs  !    Ah,  my  poor  heart ! 

PAUL.     You  took  the  four  flights  without  stop 
ping. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     Do  you  think  a  mother  ever 
stops  when  her  son  is  in  peril? 

ROSALIE.     (To  PAUL)     Good  evening,  monsieur. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     I  am  Mme.  de  Musset.     Is 
Mme.  Sand  in?     (She  glances  about  the  room) 

ROSALIE.     No.     Madame  is  not  at  home. 

MME.    DE    MUSSET.     (To   PAUL)     Home!     Why 
there  is  actually  a  bed  in  the  dining  room ! 
[16] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

PAUL.  These  artists  think  it  is  a  waste  of  time 
to  live  in  more  than  one  room. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  You  might  spare  me  these  dis 
gusting  details.  {Then  to  ROSALIE)  What  time 
will  Mme.  Sand  return? 

ROSALIE.    I  do  not  know,  Madame. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  But  you  must  know.  I  am 
Alfred  de  Musset's  mother. 

ROSALIE.  He  is  kind  to  me.  He  gave  me  a  hun 
dred  francs  when  my  sister  was  careless — and — 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.    Alfred! 

PAUL.  Mother,  Alfred  is  not  the  papa  of  every 
bambino  in  Paris.  (Then  to  ROSALIE)  You  don't 
know  when  they  are  coming  back? 

ROSALIE.  These  days  I  know  nothing.  Every 
thing  is  up-side  down  now  that  Madame  is  leaving. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  Ah,  my  mother's  instinct.  I 
was  right.  So  she  is  going  when — when? 

ROSALIE.  I  do  not  know,  because  Madame  does 
not  know.  On  Monday  I  pack  because  Madame  is 
leaving  on  Wednesday.  On  Wednesday  I  unpack 
because  Madame  is  staying  till  Friday.  On  Friday 
I  pack  because  Madame  leaves  on  Saturday  and 
on  Sunday  I  unpack  because  Madame  isn't  going 
at  all. 

PAUL.  You  see,  mother,  there  is  no  need  to  worry. 

ROSALIE.  And  while  I  pack  and  unpack  Madame 
sits  writing,  writing  all  the  time.  She  never  stops. 
I  go  to  bed.  At  four  in  the  morning  I  hear  a  noise. 
Madame  wishes  me,  I  say  to  myself.  I  come  in.  In- 

[17] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

stead  of  writing  she  is  mending  furniture.  And 
then  she  goes  out.  One  night  I  followed  her.  She 
leans  on  the  walls  of  quays  watching  the  river  till 
the  washer  women  come  out  and  the  sun's  up.  She's 
a  queer  one.  All  that  scribbling  has  gone  to  her 
head. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.    Alone  at  five  in  the  morning? 

PAUL.    Well,  anyway,  she  is  alone. 

ROSALIE.  Sometimes  I  try  to  read  what  she's 
written.  I  can't  make  it  out.  The  words  are  too 
long.  Sometimes  she  cries  when  she  writes. 

(MME.  DE  MUSSET  has  been  examining  the 
room  and  at  this  moment  she  reaches  the 
table) 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  The  table  is  set.  At  what 
time  do  they  dine? 

PAUL.  They  never  dine  in  the  Quartier.  They 
only  eat.  (He  enjoys  this  immensely) 

•MME.  DE  MUSSET.  Paul,  how  can  you  waste  your 
time  trying  to  be  witty  when  Alfred  is  in  danger. 
(Then  to  ROSALIE)  At  what  time  is  supper? 

ROSALIE.  Whenever  Madame  gets  back.  She  or 
ders  dinner  at  six  and  it  turns  into  supper  at 
eleven.  It  makes  no  difference,  nothing  matters. 
Madame  is  busy  writing.  All  the  time  writing,  ex 
cept  when  the  gentlemen  come.  Dinner  for  break 
fast,  breakfast  for  lunch.  She'll  let  her  omelet  cool 
while  she  scrawls  her  ten  pages.  Nothing  matters 
as  long  as  there's  ink  for  Madame  and  plenty  of 
cigars.  It  wasn't  like  this  in  the  country. 
[18] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     (Amazed)     Cigars! 

ROSALIE.  Black  and  long,  twenty-five  centimes. 
Now  I  must  see  to  my  tarts.  Mons.  Alfred  likes 
them.  Call  if  you  want  me.  (She  goes  out) 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  Except  when  the  gentlemen 
come !  Cigars  !  Five  o'clock  in  the  morning !  God 
help  my  boy. 

(She  is    walking   in   agitation   about    the 
room.     She  stops  m  front  of  the  screen) 
Heavens,  isn't  this  a  bathtub? 

PAUL.  What  could  be  more  innocent  than  an 
empty  bathtub?  Ha!  Ha! 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     So  this  is  her  lair. 

(She  runs  her  fingers  over  the  top  of  the 
desk  and  lifts  them  covered  with  dust) 
She  isn't  very  clean.  So !  In  such  a  dusty  place 
as  this  she  snares  men  with  her  smiles.  (She  has 
reached  the  window)  And  look!  (A  tone  of  deep 
shame  in  her  voice)  In  sight  of  Notre  Dame.  (She 
grows  more  excited)  God  grant  I'm  in  time. 

PAUL.     You  must  keep  calm,  mother. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  I  am  calm,  Paul.  I've  been 
trained  to  control  myself.  Only  peasants  and  lit 
erary  people  give  way  to  their  emotions. 

PAUL.    You  shouldn't  have  come. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  I  do  not  regret  it,  even  after 
having  seen  the  place.  I'll  do  my  duty.  She  sha'n't 
take  him  with  her.  God  give  me  strength. 

PAUL.     Hasn't  he  promised  you  he  wouldn't  go? 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.    Yes,  but  he  will,  unless  I  am  by 

[19] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

to  save  him.  She  is  his  mistress — and  I — am  only 
his  mother. 

PAUL.     If  you  had  left  it  all  to  me. 

MME.  DE  MTTSSET.  As  I  did  from  the  beginning 
and  what  has  happened?  Were  you  blind?  When  I 
asked  you  what  was  going  on,  you  told  me  Alfred 
was  looking  well — my  poor  Alfred — and  that 
Madame  was  only  more  intelligent  than  charming. 

PAUL.  You  might  think  so  yourself  if  you  knew 
her. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.    Paul ! 

PAUL.     Sometimes  I  envy  Alfred. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  My  son !  Have  you  forgot 
ten  Pm  your  mother? 

PAUL.     I  don't  think  you'd  better  stay. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  You  were  the  elder.  You 
should  have  known  what  would  come  of  this.  He 
was  a  most  sensitive  baby,  a  most  fragile  boy;  and 
now  at  the  beginning  of  his  career,  just  when  the 
great  Hugo  has  praised  his  verses — she!  she!  My 
boy,  my  poor  boy ! 

PAUL.    Why,  you've  never  even  seen  the  lady. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  Yes,  once  in  the  Bois.  She 
was  driving  with  Alfred.  I  hid  behind  my  sun 
shade.  She's  a  dragon  decked  in  ribbons.  God 
help  him! 

PAUL.  Well — er — do  you  think  she  is  the  first 
woman  that  Alfred  has — shall  I  say  known? 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (Defending  her  darling)  No, 
Paul.  How  could  one  expect  that  from  Alfred. 
[20] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

I  can  understand  my  son's  having  a  mistress  but 
let  my  son's  mistress  belong  to  my  son.  When  my 
son  belongs  to  his  mistress  it  is  time  for  his  mother 
to  descend  from  modesty  and  reticence. 

PAUL.     If  you'd  only  given  me  a  little  longer. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  They  might  have  been  on  their 
way  to  Egypt  and  those  dreadful  crocodiles.  My 
poor  boy!  (She  weeps) 

PAUL,.     What  are  you  going  to  do? 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  Plead  with  her  as  a  mother. 
She  is  a  mother,  isn't  she? 

PAUL.  Heine  says  she  was  born  a  mother  and 
that  her  dolls  were  her  lovers. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  Don't  you  ever  bring  that  man 
to  my  house.  These  artists  have  been  the  ruin  of 
Alfred.  Are  you  to  be  the  next? 

PAUL.     You  can't  understand  their  sort. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.    Thank  God  for  that. 

PAUL.     Mother,  you're  no  match  for  her. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     (Proudly)    Why  not,  my  son? 

PAUL.     Because  you're  a  lady  and  she's  a  woman. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  I  can  descend.  You  think, 
don't  you,  that  I  know  of  nothing  but  my  flowers 
and  my  old  laces, — but  life  has  taught  me  many 
things. 

PAUL.  A  man  must  love,  mother.  Does  it  mat 
ter  whom?  Love  is  only  an  affair  of  good  evening, 
good  morning — and  good-bye. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  Then  he  must  say  good-bye. 
(She  sits  down) 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

PAUL.    Do  you  find  it  so  pleasant  here? 
MME.    DE   MUSSET.      Pleasant !     Why   the   place 
reeks  of  Bohemia. 

PAUL.  (Taking  up  his  hat)  Then  let's  drive  in 
the  Bois.  It  will  calm  you. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  For  a  little  while.  Perhaps 
the  air  will  do  me  good. 

(PAUL  gives  her  his  arm.     They  turn  to 
wards  the  door.     Suddenly  she  stops) 
But  if  they  leave  before  we  get  back — 

PAUL.  Don't  you  see  the  table  is  set  for  supper? 
They  are  spiritual  but  they  still  have  stomachs. 

(They  have  reached  the  door.  Suddenly 
it  flies  open  and  CASIMIR  DUDEVAXT  bursts 
in.  He  is  "fresh  come"  from  Nohant  and  has 
been  pat/ing  his  respects  to  the  Parisian 
cafes.  He  is  rather  handsome  but  not  of  an 
unusual  sort,  a  mixture  of  the  military  and 
the  country  squire.  At  the  moment  he  is  a 
trifle  unsteady) 

CASIMIR.  (Politely  but  swayingly  to  MME.  DE 
MUSSET)  Good  evening,  Madame. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (Drawing  back,  half  in  dig 
nity  and  half  in  fright)  Another  friend  of  Madame 
Sand? 

CASIMIR.  (With  a  deep  tho  tippling  bow)  No, 
Madame,  not  a  friend.  I  am  her  husband. 

(And  PAUL  and  MADAME  DE  MUSSET  are 
gone  and  CASIMIR  from  the  top  of  the  land 
ing  is  waving  them  farewetts.     Then  ROSALIE 
[22] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

enters  from  the  kitchen  with  her  dish  of 
tarts.  She  doesn't  see  DUDEVANT  who  is  now 
leaning  against  the  wall  in  a  corner  near  the 
door.  A  minute  later  and  the  girl  is  again 
engrossed  in  the  manuscript  of  MADAME'S 
new  book,  "Valentine") 

CASIMIR.  (As  he  recognizes  ROSALIE)  Good  even 
ing,  my  girl. 

ROSALIE.  How  did  you  get  in  without  ringing  the 
bell? 

CASIMIR.  I  slipped  by,  my  dear;  because  this 
morning  when  I  asked  below  for  Madame,  my  wife, 
he  said  no  one  was  at  home.  And  this  afternoon 
again  no  one  was  at  home,  and  when  I  said  are  you 
sure,  he  said  he  was  sure,  because  Madame  was 
never  at  home ;  and  when  I  came  again  this  evening 
(He  sways  a  little)  I  couldn't  bear  to  hear  him  re 
peat  himself,  so  I  came  right  up.  The  door  was  open 
and  here  I  am. 

ROSALIE.     Well,  what  do  you  want? 

{He  has  been  eyeing  her  as  he  used  to  at 
Nohant) 

CASIMIR.  First,  I  want  to  sit  down.  (And  he 
does  so)  And  now,  have  you  a  nice  little  glass  of 
wine  for  my  nice  little  stomach? 

ROSALIE.    Another  drop  and  you  might  spill  over. 
CASIMIR.     You  haven't  learned  to  talk  like  a  Pari 
sian.     (He  leans  against  the  table) 

ROSALIE.  No,  and  I  never  wish  to.  Don't  lean 
on  that  table  cloth.  It  was  clean  three  days  ago. 

[23] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

CASIMIR.  So  then  I'm  in  time  for  dinner — Ah,  my 
poor  little  stomach. 

ROSALIE.     Get  away  from  there. 

CASIMIR.  If  I  weren't  a  gentleman,  I  mightn't  like 
your  tone.  But  I  don't  mind,  I'm  used  to  it.  (RO 
SALIE  turns  away  from  him)  I  always  like  the  swing 
of  your  hips,  so  I  came  up  from  Berri  to  get  you. 
You  can  tell  a  horse  by  its  flanks  and  a  woman  by 
the  swing  of  her  hips.  (He  comes  nearer) 

ROSALIE.      (More  hotly)     Get  away! 

CASIMIR.  So,  so,  and  your  hot  little  temper,  too. 
Come  here,  my  dear,  I  think  I'd  like  to  burn  myself. 
(He  steps  nearer) 

ROSALIE.    None  of  that,  I  wasn't  born  yesterday. 

CASIMIR.  Then  thank  God  for  to-day.  Don't  you 
like  me? 

ROSALIE.  No,  I  don't,  and  I  never  did.  I  wouldn't 
come  within  ten  feet  of  you  by  choice. 

CASIMIR.  Then  I  must  take  the  first  step.  (But 
he  finds  this  difficult  to  do)  Why  don't  you  have 
sawdust  on  the  floor?  I  can  move  much  better  in  a 
stable.  The  city  always  makes  me  thirsty.  (He 
begins  singing)  "How  sweet  are  the  fields,  the 
fields  of  clover."  Stop  looking  at  me  like  that. 

ROSALIE.  (Dodging  him)  What  did  you  come 
here  for? 

CASIMIR.     To  tell  Madame  I  don't  like  the  way 
she's  carrying  on.     Ain't  I  her  husband?     I've  come 
to  take  the  census  of  her  lovers. 
[24] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

ROSALIE.  (Resenting  this)  Get  out  of  here  or 
I'll  call  the  concierge. 

CASIMIE.  Is  he  one  of  them  too?  Ha!  ha!  Call 
until  all  the  pretty  angels  listen,  you  can't  budge 
me.  (He  tries  to  take  for  in  his  arms.  She  runs 
from  him) 

CASIMIR.  (Reeling  a  little)  Come  over  here  and 
kiss  me. 

(He  tries  to  get  her  into  a  corner) 
I've  always  wanted  you. 

(He  has  crossed  the  room  and  is  in  front 
of  George's  desk) 

So  here's  where  she  scribbles.     Fine,  very  fine.     But 
she  never  thinks  of  me.     (He  takes  up  some  sheets 
of  the  new  manuscript) 
ROSALIE.    Let  that  alone. 

(She  pushes  him  away  from  the  desk  and 
stands  on  guard) 
That  cost  Madame  five  sleepless  nights. 

CASIMIR.  And  how  many  sleepless  nights  do  you 
think  Madame  has  cost  me?  (He  sings  "Your  teeth 
are  like  dew  in  the  roses.")  I  haven't  forgotten  you, 
my  pet. 

(He  lurches  towards  her  and  slips  his  arm 
around  lier  waist) 

ROSALIE.  (Shoving  him  away)  You'd  better  get 
out  of  here  before  the  gentlemen  come. 

CASIMIR.  Maybe  I  will  and  maybe  I  won't.  I'll 
stay  to  see  my  darling.  (And  then  very  maudlin) 
I'm  the  father  of  her  children,  she's  the  mother  of 

[25] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

mine.  Nature,  how  wonderful  is  nature.  She,  me, 
then — they.  One  and  one  make — many.  She  is  ill 
she  writes  to  her  mother,  and  I  come  up  to  Paris  to 
see  her  and  you,  my  pet.  If  she's  ill,  she  needs  me. 
(He  weeps)  Look  at  me,  I'm  a  very  worried  hus 
band.  Kiss  me,  before  my  heart  breaks. 

ROSALIE.  Get  away,  I'm  too  old  for  that  sort  of 
nonsense.  I  told  you  that  long  ago. 

CASIMIR.  How  do  you  know,  my  darling,  until 
you've  tried?  (He  hums)  "How  innocent  are  the 
fields,  the  fields," 

ROSALIE.  Sh —  be  quiet!  (His  voice  grows  loud 
er)  Sh —  some  of  the  guests  are  coming. 

CASIMIR.  Maybe  they'll  pity  a  poor  wronged  hus 
band. 

ROSALIE.     They  mustn't  see  you  like  this ;  get  out. 

CASIMIR.  You  want  me  to  leave  without  seeing 
her?  What  gentleman  would  do  that?  (He  again 
busts  into  melody)  "How  sweet  are  the  fields" 

ROSALIE.  (Pushing  him  toward  the  kitchen) 
Sleep  it  off  in  my  room,  behind  there. 

CASIMIR.  Sleep,  gentle  sleep,  how  sweet  are  the 
fields.  (He  stops)  But  I  must  see  Madame. 

ROSALIE.  Yes,  yes,  I'll  tell  her.  She'll  come  in  to 
you.  Get  out !  Get  out ! 

(There  is  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs 
and  CASIMIR  barely  tumbles  into  the  kitchen 
as  ROSALIE  opens  the  door  for  BULOZ  and 
HEINE.  BULOZ  is  a  sort  of  sublimated  jour 
nalist,  terse,  pat,  with  his  eyes  perpetually  on 
[26] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

the  literary  chance.    He  is  editor  of  The  Re 
vue  des  Deux  Mondes   and  finds  MADAME'S 
"stuff"  an  attractive  feature.     HEINE  is  a 
tense,  wandering  soul  who  has  drifted  to  the 
spiritual    haven    of    Paris.      Distinguished, 
keen, — he   is   dynamic   even   in   unessentials. 
BULOZ.     I  almost  knocked  you  over,  Heine. 
HEINE.     I  was  finishing  this  on  the  last  landing. 
I've  been  half  an  hour  coming  up.     Each  floor  I  read 
a  few  pages.      (He  looks  at  an  open  book  in  his 
hand)    She  writes  like  water  tumbling  from  a  pump. 
Some  day  her  words  will  flood  the  boulevards  and 
Paris  will  be  drowned. 

ROSALIE.     Good  evening,  gentlemen,  Madame  will 
be  back  soon. 

BULOZ.     Good  evening,  Rosalie.    (Then  to  HEINE) 
Whenever  George  finishes  a  new  book,  I  kiss  Rosalie 
and  sometimes  she  kisses  me.    It's  a  sensible  arrange 
ment.     (Then  to  ROSALIE)     When  Madame  leaves, 
would  you  like  to  come  and  cook  for  me? 
ROSALIE.     No,  sir;  I'm  a  respectable  girl. 
BULOZ.     (Anxiously)     They're  leaving  to-night, 
aren't  they? 

ROSALIE.    I  don't  know.     One  day  she's  going,  the 
next  she  ain't. 

(CASIMIR'S   voice  is  heard  singing  in   the 
kitchen) 
ROSALIE.     Ah !     I  haven't  washed  the  endive. 

(The  voice  becomes  more  distinct — (<The 
field  of  cl — o — ver") 

[27] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  7] 

HEINE.    How  sweetly  the  salad  sings. 

(Rosalie  exits.      HEINE   has   reached   the 
table) 

HEINE.  Seven  candles.  That's  for  luck,  but  I 
thought  George  was  giving  this  farewell  supper  to 
commemorate  her  parting  from  Alfred. 

BULOZ.  The  bulletins  differ.  But  we'll  surely 
know  before  morning. 

HEINE.  If  his  mother  interferes  it  will  be  difficult 
for  George.  A  woman  can  do  what  she  wants  with 
a  man  until  another  woman  knocks  at  the  door. 
Then  the  Gods  bend  down  to  listen,  knowing  the  odds 
are  even. 

BULOZ.  There's  the  real  danger.  Tho  he  doesn't 
know  it,  he  still  obeys  his  mother.  She  has  written 
George  threatening  to  prevent  it. 

HEINE.     And  George? 

BULOZ.  She's  distracted  with  uncertainty.  I've 
had  five  letters  since  noon.  The  first  dark  despair. 
Alfred  has  again  given  his  word  to  his  mother.  He 
won't  go.  (He  takes  a  packet  of  letters  from  his 
pocket)  The  third  is  cryptic.  What  do  you  make 
of  this?  (He  reads)  "Night,  Nubian  night,  but  a 
skylark  still  soars  in  my  heart" 

HEINE.     Rather  confining  for  the  skylark. 

BULOZ.  Then  the  fourth — again  abject  misery. 
Written  on  the  back  of  a  menu  of  the  Cafe  de  Soleil. 
She  contemplates  suicide. 

HEINE.    Everybody  does  since  "Werther."     She'll 
probably  live  till  ninety. 
[28] 


[Act  7]  MADAME  SAND 

BULOZ.  (Glancing  at  the  paper)  She  regrets 
the  river  is  frozen  near  the  quays.  Every  week, 
every  hour,  they  decide  to  part — but  the  fire  of  hope 
burns  eternal. 

HEINE.  (An  echo  of  bitterness  in  his  voice)  Till 
fate  chokes  the  flame  with  the  douche  of  disillusion. 

BULOZ.  You're  still  young  enough  to  be  a  pessi 
mist  ? 

HEINE.  Pessimism  is  my  spiritual  purge.  How 
else  can  I  keep  my  soul  clean  in  this  filthy  world? 
My  faith  is  the  faith  of  to-morrow.  I'm  a  Jew  by 
birth,  a  Christian  by  necessity  and  an  atheist  by 
conviction.  (He  glances  at  the  table)  Changeably 
religious — but  always  hungry.  When  will  they  be 
back? 

BULOZ.  Here's  her  last  note.  They  are  going  to 
gether  to  the  top  of  Notre  Dame,  to  say  farewell  in 
the  sunset. 

HEINE.  Pinnacles  are  her  obsessions.  But  she'll 
come  down.  Bed's  the  great  leveler.  Can't  you  see 
them,  Buloz?  Here's  Madame  preparing  for  the 
lover's  leap.  The  last  farewell  has  driven  them  to 
madness.  There's  de  Musset  peeping  over  the  para 
pets, — wondering  just  where  they'll  bump  first.  And 
the  gargoyles  with  their  granite  hearts, — hideous  be 
cause  they  are  doomed  to  grin  forever, — leer  in 
silence  lest  their  laughter  should  shake  the  turrets 
when  George  again  nobly  renounces  death.  (Then 
bitterly)  Ah,  Buloz,  beware  of  this  love  of  ours. 
It  is  our  enemy,  most  selfish,  most  subtle,  and  most 

[29] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

sinister.  What  time  does  the  coach  start  for 
Lyons? 

BULOZ.     At  nine  from  the  Post  Hotel. 

HEINE.  (Looking  at  his  watch)  Nearly  eight. 
They'll  be  here  in  ten  minutes.  Supper  in  fifteen. 
Haste  may  outwit  his  loving  and  too  watchful  moth 
er.  They've  tasted  love  and  drunken,  they  know  not 
they  are  drunk.  Then,  Italy — Italy,  where  golden 
youth  lies  sleeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  centuries. 
Italy  and  dreams — and  then  some  rainy  morning, — 
the  awakening. 

BULOZ.  They  must  go.  Think  what  it  means  to 
me. 

HEINE.     You? 

BULOZ.  I've  signed  with  her  for  five  years.  My 
subscriptions  have  been  falling  off.  I  needed  just 
her  sort  of  copy  to  boost  them.  Nothing  sells  like 
love. 

HEINE.     Except  a  liaison. 

BULOZ.     Exactly. 

HEINE.  (Musingly)  And  if  they  should  awake 
too  soon  and  suffer 

BULOZ.  (Laconically)  I  count  on  that.  Pa 
thetic  relief — the  contrast  of  tears. 

HEINE.     There's  a  thought  to  make  an  essay. 

BULOZ.  Send  it  to  me  first.  I'll  print  it  in  The 
Revue. 

HEINE.  (Half  to  himself)  Some  must  suffer  that 
others  may  sup.  Socially,  spiritually,  everywhere, 
[30] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

always   true — paying  the   toll  to   life — that   others 
may  sup. 

BITLOZ.  That  ought  to  make,  say,  seven  thousand 
words.  Large  type  that  means,  shall  we  say — er — 
twenty  pages? 

HEINE.  (Tempering  his  scorn  with  a  smile)  You 
journalistic  Judas.  For  thirty  new  subscriptions 
you  would  sell  your  soul. 

BULOZ.  (Oblivious)  Or  perhaps  twenty-two 
pages.  We  can  expect  something  from  de  Musset, 
too. 

HEINE.  Of  course.  He  has  a  splendid  past  ahead 
of  him,  and  besides  he's  a  poet — a  poet  soaked  in 
absinthe  and  dried  in  moonshine.  But  he  needs  more 
rust  in  his  blood. 

BULOZ.     (Dryly}     And  you? 

HEINE.  I'm  perfect  where  I  am,  Buloz,  but  not 
quite  finished.  Don't  misjudge  me.  I'm  not  as  mod 
est  as  I  sound, — but  hungrier. 

(ROSALIE  rushes  in  from  the  kitchen) 

ROSALIE.  A  cab  has  stopped  in  the  courtyard. 
(She  begins  lighting  the  candles.  Then  to  BULOZ) 
Don't  let  her  start  writing  again  till  dinner's  served. 

BULOZ.     (Anxiously}     Not  if  we  can  help  it. 

HEINE.     But  if  Calliope  descends 

ROSALIE.  Another  of  those  actor  people?  Put 
her  out  and  remember  the  omelet.  (She  leans  out 
of  the  window)  Yes,  it's  them,  it's  them.  Madame 
is  helping  Monsieur  out.  Madame  is  paying  the 
driver.  Monsieur  Alfred  is  coming  up.  He'll  be  so 

[31] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

tired  and  so  hungry.  She's  most  likely  been  telling 
him  novels  all  day.  He's  been  so  good  to  me.  (And 
she  runs  into  the  kitchen) 

HEINE.     And  how  long  do  you  think  this  affair 
will  last,  my  friend? 

BULOZ.    How  long?    Does  that  matter  if  the  copy 
is  good? 

(And  ALFRED  stands  in  the  doorway,  a 
poet,  an  aristocrat  and  something  of  a  dandy. 
His  glance  is  firm,  his  red  lips  half  open.    He 
is  fragile  and  fine  with  that  exquisite  delicacy 
of  virility,  so  irresistible  to  women) 
ALFRED.      (In  the  doorway)     My  friends!     My 
friends !     So  you  have  come  to  say  good-bye  and  I 
have  come  to  say  good-bye.    I  am  giving  up  forever 
( BULOZ  starts)  the  most  beautiful  companion  that 
man  has  ever  known.     (ROSALIE  enters)     Rosalie,  a 
glass  of  wine.     (He  drinks  it  and  sinks  into  a  chair) 
See  my  people  for  me.     I  can't  face  them  now.     I 
might  curse  my  mother  whom  I  would  die  to  save 
from   suffering.      (His   head   drops   in  his   hands) 
Buloz,  you  see  my  brother  and  say  good-bye  for  me, 
and  you,  Heine,  because  your  style  is  rarer,  you  see 
my  mother  and  tell  her  I  bless  her  and  will  pray  for 
her  and  will  write  her  when  my  wound  is  healed. 
BULOZ.     (Low,  to  ROSALIE)     Bring  the  soup. 
ALFRED.     I'm  so  tired.     George  almost  carried 
me  up  the  last  turn  of  the  tower.     Paris  was  like  a 
fading  print  below  us.     Half-way  up  we  saw  two 
lovers  embracing  in  a  window. 
[32] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

HEINE.  Life  is  a  see-saw  and  love  swings  the 
plank.  Up  and  down,  up  and  down. 

ALFRED.  Till  we  slip,  and  the  blind  little  worms 
are  waiting.  On  the  top  of  the  tower  verses  came 
to  me.  I  called  them  "The  Blind."  Where's  the  ab 
sinthe?  Listen.  (He  pulls  out  his  cuff  and  begwis 
reading  the  lines  he  has  composed  and  which  he  has 
scrawled  on  his  linen) 

"The  nightingale  empassioned  wounds  his  heart  to 

sing, 

Whilst  in  the  perfumed  shade  of  roses  mating. 
Love  bursts  to  blossom  each  new  bud  of  spring. 
But  death,  dim  death,  with  scythe  in  hand  stands 
waiting.'* 

(ROSALIE,  enraptured  in  spite  of  herself, 
stands  in  the  door  to  the  kitchen.  HEINE 
looks  at  BULOZ,  who,  on  tiptoes,  goes  over  to 
her) 

BULOZ.  (Whispering  aside  to  ROSALIE)  I  told 
you  to  bring  the  soup.  (And  she  goes  out) 

ALFRED.  That's  death's  victory  and  life's  defeat. 
We  are  the  blind. 

HEINE.  We  ostriches  sticking  our  heads  in  the- 
sands  of  hope. 

(And  at  this  moment  enters  GEORGE — the 
brilliant,  sumptuous,  ridiculous  but  conquer 
ing  GEORGE.  She  is  never  sentimental,  never 
sententious,  never  conscious  of  her  exuber- 

[33] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

ance  or  her  exaggerations;  mistress  of  every 
thing  but  her  emotions  which,  tho  she  thinks 
she  masters,  master  her.  The  men  listening 
to  ALFRED  do  not  see  her) 

ALFRED.     {Turning  over  his  cuff,  goes  on  with  his 
reading) 

"Upon  the  moon-white  waters  glides  the  lonely  swan, 
The  willows  bend — (He  stops,  looks  at  the  other 
side  of  his  cuff,  then  back,  then  to  the  other  cuff) 

ALFRED.     (Slightly  embarrassed  repeats  the  last 
line) 

"The  willows  bend" — ahem — eh — (  There  is  a  pause) 
I  must  have  stopped  writing. 

(And    then    GEORGE    steps    forward    and 
speaks  very  simply  in  spite  of  her  emotion) 
GEORGE.     You  did,  Alfred,  because  at  that  very 
moment  we  said  good-bye  forever.     (Again  BULOZ 
starts)    We  were  born  but  to  say  good-bye. 

(There  is  a  danger  that  the  moment  may 
become  unbearably  sublime,  but  ROSALIE  op 
portunely  arrives  with  the  steaming  tureen) 
ROSALIE.     Here's  the  cream  of  onions,  Madame. 
BULOZ.     (Sniffing)    Supper  at  last. 
GEORGE.      (To  BULOZ)      Is  your  stomach  more 
important  than  our  souls? 
HEINE.     No!    But  emptier. 

(And   the  romantic   spell  is   broken,   and 
greetings  are  exchanged) 

GEORGE.     (To  BULOZ)     Did  you  get  all  my  let 
ters?     (Then  to  HEINE)     Don't  be  too  bitter  to- 
[34] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

night.  I  always  mistrust  you  pessimists.  Far  down 
you're  apt  to  be  so  sweet.  Look  deep  enough  in 
tears  there's  laughter,  and  deep  enough  in  laughter, 
tears.  Ah,  well!  Let's  be  gay.  Tho  we  feast  on 
the  brink  of  a  precipice  I  shall  smile.  One  must 
either  smile — or  die. 

(During  this  speech  they  have  taken  their 
places  at  the  table) 

ALFRED.     Where's  the  absinthe? 

GEORGE.  Not  too  much,  Freddo,  you'll  get  drowsy 
and  I  can't  let  you  sleep  here  to-night.  I've  got  to 
unpack  and  finish  five  chapters. 

BULOZ.     (Eagerly)     Five  chapters  to-night? 

GEORGE.  Perhaps  six.  I'm  very  tired.  (She 
looks  lovingly  at  ALFRED)  My  soul  has  been  sapped 
to-day  but  I  must  work.  That's  the  one  way  of  for 
getting.  Six  chapters — and  I  haven't  yet  planned 
the  fourth.  (She  sits  for  a  moment  in  deep  thought 
eating  radishes)  I'll  bring  in  this  farewell  supper. 
Why  not,  why  not,  I  ask  you?  My  stories  are  the 
mirror  of  my  life.  Tho  I  write  with  my  heart's 
blood,  still  I  must  write.  This  supper  will  make 
chapter  five.  (She  starts  improvising)  After  the 
opera  this  little  farewell  feast.  Bitter  herbs  and 
tears.  (She  begins  eating  the  onion  soup  as  she 
talks)  For  weeks,  Olivia  has  refused  to  see  Ray 
mond,  but  that  night  at  the  opera  to  the  divine 
strains  of  Donizetti  their  eyes  have  met.  (She  leans 
towards  HEINE)  Have  you  ever  tasted  such  superb 
onion  soup?  Where  was  I?  (A  moment  and  then 

[35] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

she  recaptures  her  theme)  Ah !  yes !  Raymond  has 
left  his  box  and  come  over  to  Olivia's.  Her  hair  is 
dark  as  night  in  the  Apennines.  {Then  very  sadly) 
We  might  have  seen  the  Apennines,  Freddo — if 

ALFRED.  "If"  is  the  epitaph  on  the  tomb  of  op 
portunity. 

GEORGE.  (Patting  his  hand)  Never  mind,  dear. 
We  must  be  brave.  (Another  loving  glance  and  then 
she  goes  on  with  her  story)  There  in  the  shadow  of 
her  box,  whilst  the  melting  music  woos  the  stars. 
(Suddenly  she  jumps  up  from  the  table  and  brings 
paper,  ink  and  pen  from  her  writing  desk.  Writing, 
she  repeats)  Whilst  the  melting  music  woos  the 
stars — charming  phrase,  isn't  it? — There  is  a  hur 
ried  conversation.  Yes,  she  will  go  to  his  apart 
ments,  that  very  night  for  their  last  supper  together. 
Theirs  and — ours,  Freddo, — ours.  (She  chokes 
back  a  sob) 

HEINE.  (The  tension  getting  on  his  nerves)  You 
might  open  the  window,  Rosalie. 

GEORGE.  (Continuing)  She  has  ordered  her 
coachman  to  drive  thru  the  Bois.  She  must  think, 
her  brain  pulses  like  Vesuvius.  (She  gives  a  quick 
glance  in  ALFRED'S  direction.  He  sits  sadly  examin 
ing  the  bottom  of  his  empty  glass.  She  goes  on) 
Vesuvius.  Passion  masters  her.  Where  are  the 
olives,  Rosalie?  (She  continues)  It  has  begun  to 
rain.  She  leans  from  the  window.  The  great  drops 
wound  her  brow.  (She  makes  a  note  of  this)  Yes, 
[36] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

she  will  go  to  Raymond,  but — to  say  farewell.     That 
ought  to  be  a  good  ending  for  chapter  four. 

HEINE.     Yes,  very.     If  it  ends  there. 

GEORGE.  Chapter  five.  Her  husband  has  been 
hunting  tigers  in  the  Pyrenees. 

BULOZ.     But  are  there  any  tigers  in  the  Pyrenees? 

GEORGE.  What  difference  does  that  make?  Aren't 
there  giraffes  in  the  zoo? 

( BULOZ  consoles  himself  with  his  fish) 

GEORGE.  (  Unruffled)  Her  husband,  whilst  hunt 
ing  tigers —  (A  glance  at  BULOZ)  Is  the  salmon 
nice  and  fresh?  (Then  she  goes  on)  Whilst  hunting 
tigers  has  been  wounded.  Chapter  five  brings  him 
back  to  Paris.  At  an  inn  on  the  way  he  has  seduced 
Carmella,  a  peasant  girl. 

BULOZ.     (Methodically)     Of  course! 

HEINE.  Is  there  a  peasant  girl  in  Europe  that 
hasn't  been  seduced? 

GEORGE.  (Undisturbed)  He  brings  with  him  a 
Spanish  dagger,  bought  at  Burgos. 

ALFRED.  (Catching  her  spirit)  From  a  stall 
near  the  sunburnt  cathedral. 

GEORGE.  Sunburnt  cathedral — that's  a  charming 
phrase,  Freddo.  (She  jots  it  down) 

ALFRED.     (Playfully)    Plagiarist. 

GEORGE.  (Patting  his  hand)  Darling.  He  ar 
rives  at  his  home.  It  is  past  midnight.  Madame  is 
out.  In  her  boudoir  he  finds  Raymond's  handker 
chief.  He  recognizes  the  crest.  Meanwhile,  the  lov 
ers  are  at  supper.  How  do  you  like  it,  Buloz? 

[37] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

BULOZ.  That's  just  the  place  to  announce  the 
next  instalment. 

ALFRED.     Why  have  we  decided  to  part? 

GEORGE.     We  ? 

ALFRED.  I  might  have  persuaded  you  to  give  up 
writing  novels. 

BULOZ.     Nonsense ! 

ALFRED.  Then  think  of  the  blissful  life  we  might 
have  led  together  philosophising  under  all  the  chest 
nut  trees  in  Europe.  (He  takes  her  hand) 

GEORGE.  (Looking  deep  into  his  eyes)  We  must 
learn  to  live  alone,  Freddo — alone.  (She  presses  his 
hand  to  her  lips) 

(BULOZ  sits  watching  them) 

HEINE.  (Aside  to  BULOZ)  Don't  worry,  she 
won't  stop  writing.  Every  novel  to  George  is  a  new 
love  affair.  She  always  sees  them  thru  to  the  end. 

GEORGE.  But  you  mustn't  interrupt  me,  Freddo. 
(Then  choking  back  her  sobs)  I  call  him  Freddo 
because  we  were  going  to  Italy  together.  Where 
was  I?  (Recalling)  The  rain  has  ceased. 

(There    is    a    slight    disturbance    in    the 
kitchen) 

BULOZ.  (At  the  door)  Sh —  be  quiet.  Madame 
is  composing. 

ROSALIE.  (Sticking  her  head  in,  rather  excited) 
I'm  beating  the  eggs  for  the  omelet.  (She  closes  the 
door) 

GEORGE.     (By  mistake  sprinkling  her  salmon  with 
[38] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

sugar)    They  are  out  on  the  veranda  together  in  the 
moonlight. 

ALFRED.  What  would  the  romantic  movement  do, 
if  it  weren't  for  the  moonlight. 

BULOZ.     That's  sugar,  George,  not  salt. 

GEORGE.  (Oblivious)  She  has  come  to  say  fare 
well,  but  poor,  weak  woman,  she  has  forgotten  the 
feud  twixt  flesh  and  spirit. — We  are  but  marionettes 
hung  from  the  nimble  fingers  of  the  Gods. 

HEINE.  (Looking  up  quickly  as  he  breaks  his 
bread)  Yes,  all  of  us !  We  jig  at  the  end  of  the 
wires,  poets  and  cooks,  saints  and  grisettes — hung 
from  the  nimble  fingers  of  the  Gods.  All,  all  of  us — 
even  you,  George, — even  you! 

GEORGE.  You  mustn't  break  in  with  your  Ger 
manic  philosophies.  (Then  as  she  turns  to  ALFRED, 
slightly  wetting  her  lips  with  Tier  tongue)  There 
in  the  pungent  odors  of  the  night  they  melt  into  each 
other's  arms.  And  Olivia  turns  only  to  see  her  hus 
band  standing  in  the  room. 

(And  this  is  only  too  true,  for  the  noise 
outside  has  increased,  and  at  the  next  mo 
ment,  CASIMIR  bursts  m  from  the  kitchen,  bot 
tle  in  hand.  The  men  jump  up) 

GEORGE.  (Quite  calmly)  Oh,  you!  Wait  a  min 
ute,  please.  (Then  unperturbed,  she  goes  on  with 
her  story)  Olivia,  trembling  like  a  lily  in  the  wind 
(She  is  writing  this  all  down)  throws  herself  between 
the  men  as  the  Burgos  blade  (A  loving  glance  at 
ALFRED)  bought  from  a  stall  near  the  sunburnt 

[39] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

cathedral, — flashes  in  the  moonlight.     (She  dots  the 
sentence  and  turns  to  CASIMIR) 

GEORGE.    And  now,  what  do  you  want? 
CASIMIR.     (Leering)     You.     I  want  you  to  come 
back  to  the  country,  my  dear.     I've  no  one  to  talk 
to,  your  mother's  too  old  and  the  servants  each  has 
each. 

(He  comes  towards  her.  ALFRED  inter 
cepts  him) 

ALFRED.    Don't  you  dare  come  near  this  lady. 
CASIMIR.    Eh? 

(HEINE  goes  over  to  the  "window  and  stands 
there  calmly  smoking.  The  others  are  aU 
excited  except  GEORGE,  who  sits  quietly  fin 
ishing  her  salmon.  ROSALIE  peeps  thru  the 
door) 

ALFRED.     Get  out  of  here,  you're  drunk. 
CASIMIR.     (Lurching  forward)     Ain't  I  her  bro 
ken-hearted  husband?    (He  begins  to  weep)     She's 
mine  by  law. 

GEORGE.  Have  you  come  up  from  Nohant  to 
teach  me  the  law? 

CASIMIR.  You  still  talk  just  like  a  man,  Aurora. 
You  haven't  changed  at  all,  but  you're  a  wee  bit 
fatter,  my  dear, — a  wee  bit  fatter. 

GEORGE.     (Really  resenting  this)     Nonsense,  Cas- 
imir.     (And  then  very  significantly,  as  she  glances 
towards  the  door)    Good-evening,  now.    These  three 
gentlemen  are  my  friends. 
[40] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

CASIMIR.  Friends,  Aurora?  Isn't  that  a  fancy 
way  of  putting  it? 

(He  pats  ROSALIE  on  the  cheek  and  begins 
singing  "How  sweet  are  the  fields") 
ROSALIE.     (To  GEORGE)     He  was  after  me  at  No- 
hant,  too.     That's  why  I  came  with  you.     He  was 
awful  bad  and  tho  you're  kind  of  queer,  I  knew  it 
would  be  better  with  you  and  anyhow  I'd  be  safe  in 
Paris. 

CASIMIR.  (Lyrically)  "The — fields — of — cl — oo 
— o — ver." 

HEINE.     So  he  was  the  singing  salad ! 
ROSALIE.     I  tried  to  keep  him  in  there  till  you'd 
gone,  because  you  told  me  this  morning  you'd  surely 
be  leaving  for  Venice  to-night. 

(There  is   a  quick  glance  exchanged  be 
tween  HEINE  and  BULOZ.    General  consterna 
tion  is  imminent,  but  GEORGE  is  ready) 
GEORGE.     (Sweetly  and  with  a  swooning  look  at 
ALFRED)      But  since  then  so  much  has  happened. 

(Trustingly  he   takes   her  hand.      HEINE 
comes  down  to  BULOZ) 

HEINE.  (Aside  to  BULOZ)  I  can't  let  these  do 
mestic  scenes  spoil  my  supper.  (He  sits  down  and 
begins  to  eat) 

CASIMIR.     (To  ALFRED)    Let  go  that  lady's  hand. 
ALFRED.    Keep  away  or  I'll  throw  you  out  of  the 
window. 

CASIMIR.  You  will?  (He  roars  with  laughter) 
You  will, — you,  with  your  pale  face  and  your  hair 

[41] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

like  a  woman's?     I'm  a  soldier,  young  man,  do  you 
know  I'm  a  soldier? 

(ALFRED  steps  threateningly  towards  him) 

GEORGE.  (Calmly)  You'd  better  go  now,  Casi- 
mir, — (And  then  pointing  it  with  smiling  delicacy) 
before  these  gentlemen  show  you  the  way.  The  stairs 
are  very  steep,  my  friend.  (Then  she  turns  to 
HEINE)  Have  some  more  salmon,  do. 

CASIMIR.  (Nastily)  Look  here,  I've  had  enough 
of  your  cooing  voice!  Ain't  you  my  wife? 

GEORGE.  I  have  as  much  respect  for  our  mar 
riage  contract  as  I  have  for  you.  The  day  you  took 
the  whip  into  your  hands,  I  took  the  law  into  mine. 

CASIMIR.     (Cowering)    Wives  don't  talk  that  way. 

GEORGE.  Then  it's  time  they  did.  I  don't  want 
you,  I  don't  need  you.  (And  then  ever  so  sweetly) 
Are  you  going  now? 

CASIMIR.  (Reaching  the  door  and  stopping)  I 
can't  leave,  I  can't. 

(BuLOza/wZ ALFRED  step  forward.  GEORGE, 
with  a  gentle  smile  on  her  face,  sits  watching 
the  scene) 

CASIMIR.     You  see — well — er — I 

GEORGE.     Is  it  money,  my  dear? 

CASIMIR.  (Brightening)  Just  like  you,  Lucy. 
Sooner  or  later  you  get  to  the  point.  The  fact  is — 
(He  reels)  I  lost  a  few  francs  at  my  inn.  He  had 
cross-eyes,  Lucy.  Never  gamble  with  a  cross-eyed 
man, — and  now  I've  nothing  to  take  me  to  Nohant. 

GEORGE.     (Going  to  her  desk)     Here  are  twenty 
[42] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

francs.  (And  then  to  BULOZ)  Advance  me  a  hun 
dred,  Buloz.  So, — a  hundred  and  twenty  and  you — 
(She  turns  to  HEINE)  What  do  you  add  to  get  rid 
of  this  nuisance?  That  makes  nearly  two  hundred. 
Rosalie,  lend  me  ten  francs.  (Which  the  girl  takes 
from  her  stocking) 
ALFRED.  And  I? 

GEORGE.     (Modestly)     No,  no;  not  that.     Could 
I  borrow  from  you  to  get  rid  of  a  husband? 
ALFRED.     If  it  means  your  happiness. 
GEORGE.     (Melting)     Well,  since  you  put  it  so 
beautifully. 

(And  unwillingly  she  takes  the  money  and 
gives  it  to  CASIMIR) 
GEORGE.     Good-bye.     Don't  stop  to  thank  us. 

(CASIMIR  takes  the  money,  and  stuffing  it 
in  his  pocket,  again  reaches  the  door,  and 
again  stops) 

CASIMIR.  I  might  have  forgotten,  Aurora,  if  my 
hand  hadn't  got  to  my  pocket.  (He  takes  out  a 
crumpled  piece  of  paper)  Maurice  sent  you  this. 
(He  gives  her  a  little  water-color  drawing) 

(GEORGE'S  whole  manner  changes.  All  the 
mother  in  her  welling  up  at  the  thought  of 
MAURICE) 

GEORGE.  My  little  darling.  How  is  he,  Casimir? 
Is  he  well?  Does  he  blow  his  nose  nicely?  Is  he 
kind  to  mother?  Kiss  him  for  me.  (CASIMIR  steps 
towards  her,  ALFRED  again  threateningly  intercept 
ing  him) 

[43] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

CASIMIR.  (Stumbling  back)  To  think  that  I 
should  live  to  see  the  day  when  my  wife  sits  at  table 
with  murderers  and  long-haired  swine.  You've 
broken  my  heart,  Aurora. 

(And  singing  "How  fair  are  the  fields,"  he 
reels  down  the  stairs.  There  is  an  embar 
rassed  silence) 

GEORGE.  (Lifting  the  gloom)  My  friends,  don't 
take  this  too  seriously.  What  does  a  husband  mat 
ter?  He  is  an  incident  all  married  women  should 
forget.  (Then  reminiscently)  ' My  marriage  began 
what  might  have  ended  happily.  (She  smiles  wanly 
at  ALFRED)  What  might  have  ended  happily, 
Freddo,  if  fate  had  willed  it. 

ALFRED.  Fate  is  our  enemy.  We  are  born  to 
defeat. 

GEORGE.  (Fervidly)  What  have  I  now  to  live 
for,  but  my  children  and  my  dreams?  To-day  I 
have  lacerated  my  soul  on  the  altars  of  renuncia 
tions.  (A  poignant  glance  at  ALFRED)  Life  called 
us  and  we  turned  away. 

ALFRED.  How  can  I  leave  you  to  face  the  possi 
bilities  of  such  another  scene?  You  have  suffered 
and  you  have  borne  in  silence.  There  are  tears  in 
your  eyes. 

GEORGE.  (Resignedly)  My  friend,  do  not  hope 
to  dry  them.  I  must  weep  lest  my  heart  break. 

(She  looks  imploringly  thru  the  ceiling  as 
tho  trying  to  see  God,  then  she  rushes  over 
to  the  piano,  she  begim  to  play  a  sad  lament, 
[44] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

m  a  desolate  minor  key.    Then  a  few  chords, 
arpeggios,  and  she  begins  chanting) 
"The  nightingale  impassioned  wounds  his  heart  to 

sing, 
Whilst  in  the  perfumed  shade  of  roses  mating." 

BTJLOZ.  (To  ROSALIE,  who  stands  listening)  Go 
and  get  the  omelet. 

ROSALIE.     The  eggs  are  beat. 

HEINE.  (With  an  apprehensive  glance  towards 
the  piano  as  ROSALIE  goes  out)  And  put  plenty  of 
rum  in  it. 

(And  then  to  BULOZ) 

You  shouldn't  have  brought  me  here.  I  can't 
stand  music  while  I'm  eating. 

BULOZ.  Honestly,  I  didn't  count  on  this  sort  of 
thing. 

ALFRED.  (Tenderly  to  GEORGE)  You  have  re 
membered  my  poor  verses. 

GEORGE.     Are  they  not  seared  in  my  soul? 

(More  arpeggios.  Then  thru  her  sobs  she 
continues  her  chant) 

"Love  burst  to  blossom  each  new  bud  of  spring, 
But  death — (a  chord,  two  chords,  three  chords) 

Dim  death  with  scythe  in  hand  stands " 

(She  can't  finish  the  line.  She  throws  her 
self  into  ALFRED'S  arms.  A  passionate  em 
brace.  Then  she  rushes  from  him  over  to  the 
window.  It  is  nicely  timed,  the  moon  is  ris 
ing.  Swiftly  she  opens  one  of  the  bird  cages 
and  takes  out  one  of  the  canaries) 

[45] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

GEORGE.     (In  an  ecstasy)    At  least  there  shall  be 
one  free  thing  answering  the  winds  of  desire.     (She 
sets  the  bird  free)     Let  him  fly  into  the  dawn. 
BULOZ.     Him?     How  does  she  know  it's  a  him? 
HEINE.     In  such  matters  she  is  infallible. 

(There  is  a  tableau  at  the  window.  The 
music,  the  moonlight  and  the  flight  of  the  bird 
have  been  too  much  for  ALFRED.  He  leans 
sobbing  against  the  window  frame.  GEORGE 
is  watching  him.  Then  suddenly  he  reels 
about) 

ALFRED.  No !  no !  I  shall  not  sacrifice  two  souls 
to  duty. 

HEINE.      (Dryly)     As  I  thought.     He  is  begin 
ning  to  realize  that  virtue  is  its  own  disappointment. 
(GEORGE  and  ALFRED  are  in  each  other's 
arms.      A    passionate    embrace    thru    which 
HEINE  and  BULOZ  speak) 

HEINE.     Don't  you  think  we  had  better  go  into 
the  kitchen? 
BULOZ.     Why? 

HEINE.  I  am  being  pushed  into  the  corner. 
Nothing  fills  a  room  like  love.  (A  sigh  from  the 
lovers)  When  do  you  think  it  will  be  finished? 

BULOZ.  (With  an  apprehensive  glance  towards 
GEORGE  and  ALFRED)  What?  The  kiss? 

HEINE.  (With  an  eager  look  in  the  direction  of 
the  kitchen)  No.  The  omelette. 

(A  moment  later  and  ALFRED  in  a  rapture 
swings  GEORGE  toward  the  open  window) 
[46] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

ALFRED.  Listen,  over  the  rumble  of  the  city  love 
is  calling !  Beyond  the  roofs  of  Paris  lie  the  radiant 
valleys  of  the  south ! 

HEINE.  Splendid  eye-sight,  hasn't  he?  The  heart 
sees  all. 

ALFRED.     You  love  me,  George? 

GEORGE.  (Mysteriously}  As  I  have  never  loved 
before. 

ALFRED.  (Lyrically)  There  is  a  higher  right 
than  duty,  my  adored  one.  Let  us  not  hesitate. 
Love  is  calling.  Italy  and  the  waiting  years.  Italy, 
where  one  drinks  oblivion  in  a  moment's  ecstasy. 

GEORGE.  (In  a  sort  of  vision)  Italy! — The 
moon  is  rising  in  my  heart.  (A  trill  of  song  from 
the  canaries.)  Listen!  That  is  the  music  of  the 
serenata.  The  night  is  waiting.  We  are  at  the 
gates  of  Eden. 

ALFRED.     Then  let  us  enter  in. 

HEINE.  At  the  very  gates.  What  if  they  should 
slip  ? 

(A  sound  comes  up  from  the  street. 
Voices,  laughter.  It  is  Paris,  not  Italy. 
Suddenly  GEORGE  awakes) 

GEORGE.  (Her  voice  gone  gray)  And  your 
mother? 

ALFRED.  She  is  dead  to  me.  Let  us  escape  from 
the  shadow  of  her  tomb. 

GEORGE.  (Barely  controlling  her  triumphant 
satisfaction)  Alfred,  my  own,  I  have  been  waiting. 

[47] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

(Again  they  are  in  each  other's  arms  as 
ROSALIE  arrives  with  the  omelet) 
GEORGE.      Quick!      My    bags,    my    trunks,    my 
shawls,  my  manuscripts ! 

(Then  follows  a  scene  of  intense  confusion, 
all  of  them  running  about  to  get  the  traps 
ready  while  HEINE,  undisturbed,  sits  eating) 
GEORGE.     Hurry,  Rosalie,  my  bonnet! 
ROSAIJE.    The  new  one  with  the  broad  brim  which 
you  bought  for  Italy? 

GEORGE.     Yes,  hurry,  hurry. 

(BULOZ   is   out   of   breath   strapping   the 
bags.     Supper  is  forgotten.     ALFRED  is  no 
help.    He  is  in  the  way;  every  moment  insist 
ing  on  clasping  GEORGE  to  his  bosom.    Soon, 
however,  they  are  ready) 
BULOZ.    You  go  by  way  of  Avignon  ? 
GEORGE.     Yes — but  first  a  stop  at  Lyons  to  see 
Stendahl. 

ALFRED.  (Remonstratingly)  But  he  will  talk 
to  us  all  night. 

GEORGE.  No.  He  will  dance  for  us  in  his  Rus 
sian  boots.  And  then  the  sea. 

HEINE.  (As  he  takes  the  last  olive)  Yes.  We 
are  all  of  us  afloat. 

GEORGE.  (Her  voice  aflame)  Ah,  my  friends, 
life  is  meant  to  be  squandered.  Buloz,  Heine,  fare 
well,  farewell.  I'll  write — I'll  write. 

(Then  general  embracing.     For  a  moment 
the  lovers  stand  bathed  m  the  moonlight  that 
[48] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

floods  the  room.  Confused  voices:  "Good 
bye,  farewell,  Italy,  life,  love,  etc.,  etc." 
They  turn  to  leave.  Suddenly  there  is  a 
knock  at  the  door.  ROSALIE  looks  up.  She 
hesitates.  Then  she  goes  to  the  door.  In  a 
moment  she  is  back) 

ROSALIE.      (Furtively)     There  is   a  lady  to  see 
you,  Madame. 

GEORGE.     (Gayly)     Tell  her  I  am  dying  of  love 
and  can  see  no  one. 

ROSALIE.     She's  been  here  before. 
GEORGE.     I  never  turn  a  beggar  from  my  doors. 
Buloz,  give  me  twenty  francs. 

ROSALIE.     (  Vainly  trying  to  warn  her)     She  came 
in  a  carriage. 

GEORGE.     I've  no  objection.     Let  her  drive  back 
in  it. 

(The  knock  is  repeated.     Timidly  ROSALIE 
opens   the  door  and  MME.  DE  MUSSET  and 
PAUL  enter.) 
ALFRED.     Mother ! 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     (  Who  with  quiet  dignity  has 
arisen  to  the  occasion)     Alfred! 

BULOZ.  (Under  his  breath)  Mme.  de  Musset! 
MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (  With  gentle  courtesy)  Par 
don  this  late  intrusion,  Madame.  I  see  I  disturb 
you  at  dinner.  (And  then,  pointing  the  facts  with 
delicacy,  but  with  a  will  behmd  it)  I  thought  my 
son  might  be  leaving  and  would  care  to  drive  home 
with  me. 

[49] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

(A  tense  moment.     The  literary  history  of 
France  hangs  in  the  balance,  and  then  MME. 
DE  MUSSET  brilliantly  comes  to  the  rescue) 
MME.    DE   MUSSET.      (With   sudden   inspiration) 
Delightful  weather  for  December? 
HEINE.     (Dryly)     It  always  is. 
BULOZ.     (Clearing  his  throat)     Hem! 
MME.  DE  MUSSET.      (Quietly  but  firmly)     Well, 
Alfred? 

ALFRED.     Please,  mother,  let's  avoid  a  scene. 
MME.  DE  MUSSET.     I've  spent  most  of  my  life  do 
ing  that,  my  son.     (She  glances  at  GEORGE)     Are 
you  coming,  Alfred? 

ALFRED.     I — I  must  speak  to  you. 
MME.  DE  MUSSET.    It  will  be  very  quiet  in  the  car 
riage.    Paul  can  take  a  cab.     (And  then,  with  a  note 
of  graceful  condescension,   she   turns   to   GEORGE) 
Madame,  I  hope  I  find  you  well? 

(And  then  equally  sweetly,  GEORGE,  who 
mentally  has  been  aiding  destiny,  answers 
her) 

GEORGE.  I'm  well,  Madame,  I  thank  you,  very, 
but  won't  you  and  your  son  finish  supper  with  us? 
We've  but  just  begun. 

ROSALIE.  (Cheerily)  Yes,  the  omelet  just  fin 
ished.  Have  some,  Monsieur  Paul.  It's  the  kind 
you  like. 

(Paul    involuntarily    steps     towards     the 
table) 
[50] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  Paul!  (Then  to  GEORGE) 
Thank  you,  Madame,  but  I've  already  supped.  But 
we  are  keeping  you  so  long  from  table.  Come,  Al 
fred,  have  you  forgotten  that  you  promised  to  read 
your  new  verses  to  your  sister's  friends,  this  even 
ing?  (She  steps  towards  the  door)  A  thousand 
apologies  for  my  intrusion.  Good-evening,  Madame ; 
good-evening,  gentlemen.  Come,  my  sons. 

(PAUL  is  at  his  mother's  side.    Att  eyes  are 
on   ALFRED.      He   steps    towards    the   rack 
where  he  has  hung  his  cape  and  ha,t.  A  pause. 
Then  GEORGE  takes  the  reins) 
GEORGE.     Madame,  will  you  permit  me  to  speak 
to  you  alone? 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  I  doubt,  Madame,  if  there  is 
anything  that  we  have  to  say  to  each  other. 

GEORGE.  (Significantly)  Butterflies  are  fragile. 
Shall  we  bruise  them  on  the  anvils  of  our  rashness? 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (Slightly  mystified)  Pardon 
me,  Madame,  but — 

GEORGE.  Gentlemen,  you  will  excuse  us.  There 
are  things  that  we  women  say  to  each  other  that  you 
men  can  never  know.  Don't  go  into  my  bedroom,  if 
you  please.  The  bed  is  tossed. 

(And  ROSALIE  and  the  gentlemen  go  off 
leaving  the  candle-lit  battle-field  to  GEORGE. 
Throughout  the  following  scene  her  tone 
varies.  One  moment  she  is  soft  and  feminine, 
the  next  masculine  and  dominant! 

[51] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

GEORGE.  And  now  we  can  have  a  nice  cozy  chat 
together.  Do  sit  down. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (Stiffly)  Thank  you.  (But 
she  remains  standing) 

GEORGE.     (Lightly)    As  you  please. 

(And  GEORGE,  turning  a  chair  about,  seats 
herself  at  the  table) 

GEORGE.  (Offering  MME.  DE  MUSSET  a  cigarette) 
Will  you  smoke? 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  That  is  one  of  the  things,  Ma 
dame,  that  I  leave  to  men. 

GEORGE.  (Pleasantly)  That's  the  mistake  we 
women  make.  We  leave  too  much  to  the  men.  We 
bury  our  souls  in  satin,  and  they  take  advantage  of 
our  weakness.  Perhaps  you  would  prefer  a  cigar, 
Madame. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     (A  gasp)    No,  Madame. 

GEORGE.  After  breakfast  I  cannot  live  without 
my  cigar.  The  odor  is  so  delicious  mixed  with  my 
rose  geraniums.  (She  sniffs)  Is  there  anything  in 
the  world  so  redolent  as  the  odor  of  rose  geraniums, 
— or  perhaps  you  prefer  jasmine?  But  it's  too  late 
for  jasmine. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (Involuntarily  sitting  down) 
Madame,  do  you  think  I  came  here  to  talk  botany? 

GEORGE.  (Tensely)  No,  Madame.  You  came 
to  do  what  God  alone  can  do,  to  command  two  peo 
ple  to  cease  loving  each  other.  Do  you  think  you 
can  do  that,  Madame?  Since  the  beginning  of  time 
all  nature  has  been  preparing  for  this  love  of  ours — 
[52] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

Alfred's  and  mine.  The  stars  are  in  their  allotted 
places  so  that  we  might  love. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  I  know  nothing  about  astron 
omy. 

GEORGE.  (Oblivious)  Eden  first  bloomed  so  that 
we  might  love.  (She  has  stretched  across  the  table 
and  has  reached  her  ink  and  pen  and  paper,  and  in 
the  shadow  of  the  sugar  bowl,  is  jotting  down  the 
phrases  that  particularly  appeal  to  her)  Abel  slew 
Cain — er — er — so  that  we  might  love.  Since  the  re 
motest  hint  of  time,  fate  has  willed  it.  Are  you  God, 
Madame?  Can  you  toy  with  destiny? 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  Pardon  me,  but  I  cannot  un 
derstand  this  literature  you  speak. 

GEORGE.  You  call  my  words  literature?  No,  in 
deed,  Madame,  they  are  the  burning  truth, — a  truth 
you  cannot  understand.  You  have  lived  too  long  in 
your  damask-dusty  world  where  the  blinds  are  al 
ways  drawn  whilst  I, — I  have  cut  my  flesh  on  the 
thorns.  Do  you  know  what  my  life  has  been? 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  No,  that  I  do  not  presume  to 
know.  I  do  not  wish  to  know.  It  will  not  move  me ; 
my  son  shall  not  go  with  you.  What  would  become 
of  him? 

GEORGE.  He  would  enter  the  glorious  kingdom 
hand  in  hand  with  the  woman  he  loves.  Do  you  dare 
deny  him  that?  Can  God, — God  who  is  love  be 
watching  this? 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  Madame,  spare  me  this  melo- 

[53] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

drama.  You  are  right.  I  have  lived  a  guarded  and 
what  you  would  call  a  narrow  life,  but  in  that  old- 
fashioned,  ridiculous  seclusion  at  which  you  scoff  I 
have  learned  to  respect  tradition. 

GEORGE.  (Tensely)  Need  is  the  only  tradition 
I  acknowledge. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  Alfred  will  not  go  with  you. 
He  has  given  me  his  word.  He  is  a  gentleman. 

GEORGE.  Ah,  yes.  It  takes  generations  to  make 
a  gentleman,  but  it  takes  only  one  man  to  make  a 
generation.  I  am  helping  to  make  mine  because  I 
am  free.  He,  too,  must  be  free.  Do  not  fetter  a 
falcon  lest  he  break  his  chains. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (Not  quite  sure  that  she  un 
derstands  George's  elaborate  simile)  If  you  mean 
that  I  restrain  Alfred,  you  are  wrong. 

GEORGE.  Ah,  that's  what  you  would  have  him 
think.  But  you  mothers  have  a  way  of  holding  on. 
I  tell  you  he  must  be  free  to  sing.  I  have  bought  my 
freedom  with  my  heart's  blood.  I  have  suffered. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  And  we  mothers,  do  you  think 
we  mothers  do  not  suffer? 

(This  is  a  superb  moment  for  GEORGE. 
She  snatches  from  lier  bosom  the  little  water- 
color  drawing  which  CASIMIR  has  brought 
her) 

GEORGE.     I  too   am  a  mother,  Madame !     Look 
what  my  darling  son  has  sent  me !     This  poor  little 
painting  of  roses.     (She  is  sobbing)     Do  you  think 
I  do  not  know  a  mother's  heart? 
[54] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.    Then  give  my  son  back  to  me. 

GEORGE.  I  have  not  taken  him.  God  has  sent 
him.  Ah,  my  friend,  he  has  made  me  so  happy. 
Every  day  finds  me  more  attached  to  him.  Every 
day  the  beauty  of  life  shines  more  brilliantly.  Would 
you  shatter  this  love  of  ours?  He  is  my  universe, 
my  all. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (Slowly}  Pardon  me,  Ma 
dame,  but  you  force  me  to  be  cruel. 

GEORGE.  Go  on,  go  on,  life  has  not  spared  me, 
why  should  you? 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  You  say  you  are  his  universe, 
but,  Madame,  are  you  sure  you  are  all  of  this  to  him? 

GEORGE.  Ask  him  and  his  tears  will  answer  you. 
(She  jots  this  down)  After  the  desolation  of  my 
past  he  has  come  like  a  new  dawn  into  my  life.  I 
was  a  mere  girl  when  I  married,  young,  furtive,  reti 
cent,  romantic.  I  adored  my  husband.  I  gave  him 
my  faith,  my  life.  And  what  did  he  make  of  them? 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     Spare  me. 

GEORGE.  (Leaning  towards  her)  He  tossed  them 
to  the  first  chambermaid  that  smiled  on  him.  I  suf 
fered  this  because  I  still  loved  him.  Men, — Madame, 
men  never  know  what  agony  we  women  hush  in  our 
hearts. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (In  spite  of  herself)  Yes — 
that  is  true. 

GEORGE.  I  bore  this.  My  baby  came.  I  still 
preserve  his  first  wee  darling  shoes. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (Off  her  guard)  And  I've 

[55] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

kept  Alfred's  curls.     There's  still  a  glint  of  gold  in 
them.     (Her  voice  softens) 

GEORGE.  (Making  the  most  of  the  moment)  I 
bore  this  till  the  day  he  struck  me. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     (More  gently)     Struck  you? 
GEORGE.     Then  I  left  him  forever  to  find  refuge 
in  Paris  and  consolation  in  my  work.    Ah,  Madame, 
do  you  begin  to  understand? 

(Then  MME.  DE  MUSSET  speaks  very  quick 
ly  attempting  to  cover  a  softening  emotion 
which-  she  can't  suppress) 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  But  why, — why  have  you 
chosen  my  boy  from  all  the  men  you — 

(She  stops  short) 

GEORGE.  Because  he  has  come  as  my  first  love, 
when  I  thought  that  love  was  over  forever.  You 
must  not,  you  cannot  take  him  from  me. 

(MME.  DE  MUSSET  is  half -consciously  be 
ginning  to  pity  her  and  she  fights  against  it) 
MME.  DE  MUSSET.    I  am  taking  him  away  to  save 
him. 

GEORGE.  Save  him?  Is  he  not  a  man?  Would 
you  fling  him  to  the  grisettes  of  the  boulevard  as  the 
Philistines  flung  Daniel  to  the  lions?  (Again  the 
Bible.  The  Scriptures  were  ever  her  "present  help 
in  trouble")  No !  no !  I  will  be  a  mother  to  him. 
A  mother  and  a  mistress.  That  combination  is 
unique,  Madame,  unique,  but  none  the  less  sublime. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     I 

GEORGE.     (In  a  last  beautiful  effort)     You  are 
[56] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

his  mother.  You  gave  him  life.  He  drank  in  love 
at  your  breasts.  You  have  reared  and  tendered  him 
and  in  gratitude  he  would  give  back  some  of  this  love 
you  have  given  him.  He  would  pay  heaven  by  lov 
ing  in  return.  There  are  tears  in  your  eyes.  There 
are  tears  in  the  hearts  of  each  of  us.  You  have 
taught  him  love  and  now  he  would  bring  an  offering 
of  love  to  lay  on  the  altar  of  my  heart. 

MME.  DE  MITSSET.  (Almost  won)  Your  elo 
quence,  Madame 

GEORGE.  No !  No !  It  is  not  my  eloquence,  it  is 
your  mother's  love,  understanding  the  love  of  an 
unfortunate  sister. 

(She  throws  herself  on,  her  Jcnees  before 
her,  then  with  dulcet  sweetness) 
May  I  call  you  mother? 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  I  have  misjudged  you,  Ma 
dame.  I  ask  your  pardon.  There  is  much  good  in 
your  heart. 

GEORGE.  I  have  opened  it  to  you.  (And  then 
from  a  sublimated  height  of  spirituality)  You  will 
tell  him  to  go  with  me. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (On  the  verge  of  a  collapse) 
j j 

GEORGE.     (Very  gently)     You  will,  mother? 
MME.   DE  MUSSET.      (Slowly)     Yes,  he  shall  go 
with  you. 

(And  GEORGE  sprmgs  up  and  rushes  tri 
umphantly  to  the  door  of  the  kitchen) 

[57] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

GEORGE.  (Catting)  Alfred,  Alfred.  Madame, 
you  have  chosen  well. 

(But  the  emotional  strain  has  been  too 
much  for  MME.  DE  MUSSET  and  she  is  weep 
ing  when  ALFRED  enters) 

ALFRED.     Mother,  my  mother,  do  not  weep.     If 
one  of  us  must  suffer,  it  shall  not  be  you. 
MME.  DE  MUSSET.    My  son,  my  son. 
ALFRED.     You  have  suffered  agony  to  give  me 
life,  shall  I  not  suffer  agony  to  bring  you  peace? 
Come,  mother,  I  renounce  my  love,  and  will  go  with 
you. 

(And  MME.  DE  MUSSET  is  so  swept  away 
by  her  son's  nobility  that  she  -forgets  her 
words  to  GEORGE) 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (Throwing  her  arms  about 
him)  Then  come,  my  Alfred,  and  your  mother  will 
help  you  to  forget. 

(They  move  towards  the  door.  A  pause. 
GEORGE  **  almost  swooning.  But  a  moment 
later  and  she  is  ready  even  for  this  seeming 
defeat  on  the  brink  of  victory.  She  bars 
their  way) 

GEORGE.  (Darkly)  He  loves  me  with  his  life. 
(And  then  very  tragically)  He  will  not  hesitate  if 
you  come  between  us.  He  is  a  genius,  and  geniuses 
do  not  stop  to  think. 

(In  horror  MME.  DE  MUSSET  looks  at  AL 
FRED.     Dejectedly  he  turns  away,  his  head 
fallen) 
[58] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (In  terror)  No!  No!  Not 
that !  Not  that ! 

(The  men  crowd  in  at  the  doorway) 
ALFRED.     I  am  but  a  poor  reed,  broken  in  the 
wind  of  destiny. 

(GEORGE  watches  MME.  DE  MUSSET.     Her 
last  thrust  has  gone  home} 

HEINE.  (With  a  quick  glance  at  GEORGE  as  she 
puts  on  the  new  bonnet  bought  for  Italy)  The 
wind  has  changed. 

ALFRED.  I  am  ready,  mother.  I  shall  go  with 
you,  tho  I  leave  my  life  behind  me. 

(Candle-light  and  pathos  crown  the  scene. 
Then  MME.  DE  MUSSET  speaks) 
MME.  DE  MUSSET.     (Her  voice  trembling)     No, 
Alfred,  you  shall  go  to  Italy.     I  am  your  mother 
and  I  wish  it.     I  have  misjudged  this  lady.     Her 
heart  is  noble.     My  blessings  follow  you. 

(She  sinks  into  a  chair  at  the  table  and 
ALFRED  throws  himself  on  his  knees  before 
her) 
ALFRED.     My  mother,  my  noble  mother. 

(Pause.     Tableau,  then  BULOZ  bustles  in) 
BULOZ.      (Briskly)      You  haven't   much  time,  if 
you're  leaving  to-night.     The  diligence  starts  from 
the  Post  in  ten  minutes. 

GEORGE.  Quick,  Rosalie,  a  cab,  a  cab.  (ROSALIE 
rushes  out)  Alfred,  when  Elysium  beckons  we'll  not 
wait  for  baggage.  Buloz,  give  Rosalie  two  hundred 
francs  and  send  my  trunks  to  Genoa  and  twenty 

[59] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  I] 

reams  of  Weynan  paper.     My  pen  adores  it.     Al 
fred,  Alfred,  the  world  is  kind. 

(ALFRED  has  got  up  and  braced  himself 
with  half  a  bottle  of  claret) 

ALFRED.      (Gayly)      I'll  write    five    comedies,    a 
tragedy  and  three  books  of  poems. 
BULOZ.     Hurry !     Hurry ! 

(One  or  two  wraps  and  a  few  small  bags 
are  hustled  into  the  hall) 

HEINE.  Good-bye,  fond  lovers,  the  Gods  have 
made  you  artists. 

(ROSALIE  comes  rushing  in) 

GEORGE.  (Rapturously)  And  love  will  make  us 
Gods! 

ROSALIE.  There  was  a  cab  in  the  courtyard. 
(Then  to  GEORGE)  He  said  you  told  him  to  wait  all 
evening. 

(GEORGE  from  her  pmnacle,  disregarding 
this  last  blatant  proof  of  her  campaigning) 
GEORGE.    Good-bye, — farewell,  my  friends.     (And 
then  beautifully   to   MME.   DE  MUSSET)      Madame, 
God  looks  down  on  us.     Love  is  all. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     (Suddenly  succumbing  to  the 
practical)     Be  sure  that  Alfred  wears  his  heaviest 
flannels  in  that  drafty  diligence. 
GEORGE.     Trust  me!    Love  is  all! 

(And   snatching    her    half-finished   manu 
script  from  the  desk,  she  and  ALFRED  rush 
from  the  room,  followed  by  BULOZ  and  HEINE. 
MME.  DE  MUSSET  sits  silently,  quite  overcome, 
[60] 


[Act  I]  MADAME  SAND 

as  PAUL  runs  over  to  the  window  to  watch 
the  departure;  and  ROSALIE  begins  clearing 
the  table.     She  sees  the  omelet} 
ROSALIE.     (Laconically)     And  all  those  ten  eggs 
wasted. 

(  Voices  sound  up  from  the  courtyard.  The 
noise  has  again  wakened  tlie  canaries.  There 
is  a  shower  of  song  and  the  curt  am  falls) 


END    OF    ACT    I 


[61] 


ACT  II 

Nothing  but  Time  Lasts  Forever 


ACT  II 

It  is  six  months  later.  The  scene  is  GEORGE'S 
apartment  in  the  Hotel  Darnell,  Venice.  It  is  even 
ing.  Through  a  great  Venetian  window,  back  center, 
in  the  distance  across  the  Grand  Canal,  can  be  seen 
the  Island  of  San  Giorgio  with  its  Campanile  sil 
houetted  against  the  moon.  The  room  is  huge  tiled 
and  gloomy.  Deep  shadows  are  everywhere.  A  few 
chairs  are  about.  MADAME'S  writing  desk  piled  high 
with  manuscripts  is  in  a  corner,  and  to  the  right  a 
great  four-poster  bed  with  the  curtains  drawn.  But 
the  hand  of  the  occupant  hangs  below  them  and  is 
just  visible  in  the  dim  light  of  a  night  lamp  which 
stands  on  a  little  bottle-covered  table  near  the  bed. 
There  is  a  suggestion  of  the  atmosphere  of  a  sick 
room,  but  somehow  the  idea  of  gloom  is  not  too  per 
vasive. 

Outside  on  the  Grand  Canal  a  "serenata"  is  in  full 
swing.  One  hears  the  -call  of  the  gondoliers,  the 
bump  of  the  boats,  the  chatter  of  voices,  the  beating 
of  tambourines  and  the  shrill  laughter  of  women,  like 
little  rockets  shooting  up  in  the  shifting  hum  of 
sound.  A  sudden  stittness  and  then  a  man's  vdice 
sings,  lusciously,  meltingly,  a  Venetian  love  song  with 
an  accompaniment  like  a  Barcarole  of  Mendelssohn. 

[65] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

Italy — night — and  love — and  this  sick-room.  But 
still  the  background  is  fitting  for  in  the  deep,  dark 
embrasure  of  the  Venetian  window  in  the  rear  which 
opens  on  a  balcony  over  the  canal,  two  figures  are 
leaning,  listening  to  their  hearts  and  the  music. 
They  are  GEORGE  and  her  lover. 

GEORGE.  No!  No!  Don't  answer.  The  stillness 
is  too  eloquent.  Listen !  Listen  ! 

{The  voice  of  the  singer  at  the  serenata, 
lifts  in  poignant  ecstasy) 

GEORGE.  Listen,  his  voice  has  reached  the  stars 
that  bend  down  to  hear.  Ah,  my  beloved,  love  is  the 
end  and  the  beginning. 

(They  are  smoking  in  the  shadows  of  the 

deep  window.     The  fumes  float  out) 

GEORGE.     Do  you  know  what  my  life  has  been 

until  you   came  bearing  a  light   in  the  darkness? 

Nights    of   despair    and    dawns    of   disillusionment. 

Life  was  but  a  sorry  riddle  whose  answer  was  death. 

(She  is  almost  sobbing)     That  thought  came  to  me 

yesterday  in  the  Hebrew  cemetery.     All  was  over 

and  now  love  again  sings  in  my  heart.     Let  silence 

be  our  prayer  of  thanksgiving. 

(A  moment's  attempt  at  this  "silence,"  but 
the  crowd  outside  do  not  understand  its  beau 
tiful  necessity  and  the  next  second  the  song 
is  over  and  a  tumultuous  burst  of  applause 
lifts  from  the  waters) 

GEORGE.     And  now  we'll  have  tea.     How  beauti 
fully  he  sang.     Music  is  perpetual  passion  yearning 
[66] 


[Act  II]  MADAME  SAND 

forever.     Sh! — you  mustn't  speak  so  loudly  or  our 
patient  may  awake. 

(She  comes  from  the  window.  Her  lover 
stops  in  the  shadow  watching  her  as  she 
glides  about.  She  dips  a  taper  into  the  night- 
lamp  and  at  the  end  of  the  room  farthest 
from  the  bed  lights  a  candle  standing  in  a 
bracket  hanging  on  the  wall.  The  stage  grows 
a  little  lighter.  She  is  dressed  in  man's 
clothing  and  is  smoking  a  huge  cigar.  She 
leans  over  a  little  brazier 

GEORGE.  Yes — it's  bubbling.  I  adore  cooking. 
Even  making  tea  fascinates  me.  That's  why  Dumas 
would  never  come  to  see  me  in  Paris — ah,  Paris — 
he  was  jealous  of  my  sauces.  (She  pours  a  little 
water  into  a  tea-pot)  Come,  dear,  it's  ready. 

(And  DR.  PAGELLO  steps  out  of  the  shadow 
of  the  window.  He  is  GEORGE'S  deep-eyed, 
hesitant,  but  none  too  brilliant  Italian  doc 
tor.  He  has  no  mental  distinction,  no  au 
thority,  no  particular  magnetism,  but  he  is 
charmingly  simple  and  GEORGE  has  discov 
ered  in  him  a  latent  talent  for  the  tender  one- 
syllabled  sort  of  love  which  at  the  moment 
of  the  threatening  "debacle"  of  her  affair 
with  DE  MUSSET,  her  soul  needs;  and  withal 
though  he  is  not  too  masterful  he  is  extraor 
dinarily  handsome} 

GEORGE.    Sh — You  mustn't  speak  too  loudly.    He 

[67] 


MADAME  SAND  {Act  II] 

may  awake.  (She  glances  toward  the  bed)  Though 
he  has  outraged  our  love,  still  I  pity  him. 

PAGELLO.     He  needs  sleep  badly. 

GEORGE.  Ah,  my  friend,  we  must  heal  him. 
France  needs  him.  He  is  weak,  weak — his  imagina 
tion  has  sapped  his  will.  (And  then  rather  myste 
riously)  But  he  must  not  pass  beyond. 

PAGELLO.  No.  He  will  live,  but  I  do  not  see  why 
you  say  pass  beyond.  It  is  very  difficult  for  a  phy 
sician  to  understand  how  you  other  people  feel  about 
that  sort  of  thing. 

GEORGE.  (Half  playfully)  You  ponderous  sci 
entist.  You  wicked,  wicked  materialist,  don't  you 
believe  the  soul  goes  on  forever?  (Then  beautifully) 
Isn't  love, — our  love — an  earthly  symbol  of  the 
soul's  eternity.  Don't  you  understand  that  Pietro? 

PAGELLO.  I — I  used  to  understand  only  what  I 
saw,  but  you  somehow,  you  make  me  understand 
what  I  do  not  see.  I  cannot  explain  you  to  myself. 

GEORGE.  I  thought  nothing  was  hidden  from  you 
doctors. 

PAGELLO.  Most  of  the  women  I  know  are  differ 
ent  from  you.  You  are  very  unlike  my  mother. 

GEORGE.  No,  no,  Pietro,  perhaps  you  misjudge 
me.  I,  too,  am  only  a  woman. 

PAGELLO.  I  carry  my  mother's  picture  with  me. 
See.  (He  shows  her  a  little  locket,  which  hangs  from 
a  chaw,  about  his  neck)  She  is  very  dear  to  me. 

GEORGE.  (Looking  at  the  miniature)  Your  eyes 
— your  brow — and  that  look  of  trust.  Some  day 
[68] 


[Act  77]  MADAME  SAND 

you  must  tell  me  all  about  her.  You  will  have  a 
little  rum?  Yes — some  day  we'll  go  to  her — you 
and  I.  (PAGELLO  starts  slightly)  I'll  read  her  part 
of  my  latest  novel.  I  wrote  for  six  hours  last  night. 

PAGELLO.     (Deeply  concerned)    That's  too  much. 

GEORGE.  And  for  seven  again  this  morning  be 
fore  breakfast.  I've  gotten  used  to  it.  (She  glances 
toward  the  bed,  and  then  with  a  note  of  genuine  sad 
ness  in  her  voice)  It  helps  me  to  forget. 

PAGELLO.  (Professionally)  Work  like  that  is 
bad  for  you,  you  cannot  keep  it  up, — or 

GEORGE.  Is  it  can  or  cannot?  I  must  live  and 
to  live  I  must  write. 

PAGELLO.     Why,  even  we  physicians 

GEORGE.  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  (She  is  smiling  gently 
at  him)  Your  mother  will  like  my  book  and  you  too, 
Pietro.  It  is  written  out  of  my  heart. 

PAGELLO.  I  think  my  father  would  care  more  to 
hear  it.  He  is  a  scholar,  you  know.  He  has  come 
up  from  Castelfranco  to  read  some  books  in  the 
library  here.  He  is  waiting  for  me  in  the  Piazetta; 
we  are  to  have  ices  together.  All  day  he  is  busy 
with  his  books,  and  in  the  evening  I  meet  him. 

GEORGE.  You  are  a  dutiful  son.  Do  not  believe 
the  cynics,  Pietro.  The  world  is  full  of  dutiful  sons. 
(A  half  glance  towards  the  bed) 

PAGELLO.  He  is  writing  a  history  of  Castel 
franco.  He  loves  our  home. 

GEORGE.  Yes,  yes,  I  too  love  the  scenes  of  my 
childhood.  Dear,  secluded  Nohant — but  lately  I 

[69] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

have  been  dreaming  (She  leans  a  little  toward  him) 
of  the  Alpine  hills.  Why,  even  here  in  Venice  I  smell 
the  scent  of  the  almond  flowers.  (Then  very  ten 
derly)  You  know  the  Alpine  valleys,  Pietro — it  is 
spring  (And  into  the  last  word  she  crowds  all  the 
essence  of  the  sweet  beginning  of  things) — spring. 

PAGELLO.  I  have  seen  very  little.  Venice  and 
the  country  about  my  home. 

GEORGE.     Yes,  we  will  go  there  some  day. 

PAGELLO.  George!  (He  leans  towards  her,  then 
stops)  George 

GEORGE.  You  have  an  adorable  way  of  hesitating 
and  then  a  lovely  worried  smile  comes  into  vour  eyes. 
You  must  ever  stay  what  I  know  you  are  rather  than 
what  you  may  be. 

PAGELLO.  What  I  am,  what  I  have  done,  does 
that  matter  now? 

GEORGE.  You  must  tell  me  nothing.  (She  glances 
towards  the  bed)  Once  before  I  thought  I  knew 
the  heart  of  a  man.  Ah,  well!  (She  sadly  shakes 
her  head)  But  now — now—  (She  leans  towards 
him)  You  must  remain  a  mystery. 

PAGELLO.    Why?    Why? 

GEORGE.  Because  my  love  for  you  is  beyond  un 
derstanding.  It  is  part  of  myself.  You  have  come 
to  me  (Again  a  pathetic  glance  at  the  patient) 
when  my  heart  was  broken. 

PAGELLO.  Before  I  knew  you  nothing  used  to  in 
terest  me  so  much  as  gall-stones.  But  now 

GEORGE.       You     droll     darling.       Sh — Sh — We 
[70] 


[Act  III  MADAME  SAND 

mustn't  talk  so  loud.  (There  is  a  movement  and  a 
sigh  from  the  sleeper  behind  the  curtains)  God 
grant  he  is  quiet  to-night.  I  cannot  stand  this  ter 
rible  life  much  longer. 

PAGELLO.  I  pity  you,  you  have  nursed  him  like  a 
mother. 

GEORGE.  What  has  he  not  done  to  break  my 
heart  ? 

(She  steps  towards  the  bed  and  mournfully 
looks  m  at  the  sleeper.  Then  she  is  back 
at  the  table) 

GEORGE.  May  God — who  is  love — some  day  give 
me  the  strength  to  forgive  him. 

PAGELLO.  He  is  better,  almost  well  again — if  he 
can  give  up  this  drinking — 

GEORGE.  If?  Think  of  it,  Pietro.  The  other 
night  I  had  to  call  up  two  of  the  stoutest  porters  to 
hold  him  down.  He  wept  and  sang  and  without  a 
stitch  of  clothing  danced  about  the  room  shrieking 
that  the  place  was  full  of  demons  with  vipers  in 
their  hair.  It  was  terrible. 

PAGELLO.  (Attempting  to  quiet  her)  Don't 
speak  of  these  things,  George. 

(  The  memory  of  it  is  too  much  for  her,  but 
the  old  instmct  conquers) 

GEORGE.  Some  day  I  shall  put  that  scene  into  a 
novel.  Why  not — life  is  my  theme.  He  has  come 
reeling  home.  He  has  squandered  his  money  and 
mine,  Pietro.  He  has  lost  thousands  of  francs  at  the 
tables.  I  sent  to  Paris,  Buloz  advanced  me  more. 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

PAGELLO.  What?  This  money  that  you  earn, 
writing  day  and  night, — 

GEORGE.  Yes !  Yes ! — By  the  sweat  of  my  soul 
— I  should  say  brow.  It  is  true,  my  friend.  The 
French  Consul  has  taken  him  to  these  gambling 
houses  and  other  places — other  places,  Pietro. 

PAGELLO.  And  all  the  while  you  sat  there.  (He 
points  to  the  desk) 

GEORGE.  Do  you  think  he  minded  that?  One 
night  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat  I  found  a  slipper — 
a  slipper  of  a  ballerina.  It  was  soaked  with  cham 
pagne. 

PAGELLO.  (The  extravagance  rather  than  the  im 
propriety  getting  the  better  of  him)  No!  Cham 
pagne.  That  cost  two  lires  a  bottle! 

GEORGE.  The  toe  was  stuffed.  That's  how  these 
people  seem  to  dance  on  nothing.  Ah — I  have  borne 
much. 

PAGELLO.    Yes,  yes. 

GEORGE.     Sh — he  is  awake. 

(A  moment's  pause,  then  agam  quiet.  The 
hand  below  tJie  curtain  falls  a  little  lower 
in  exhausted  relaxation) 

PAGELLO.  George,  George,  my  noble  friend,  how 
you  have  suffered. 

GEORGE.  I  have  borne  all.  The  gold  he  flung 
about  him,  that  mattered  little.  I  could  write,  write. 
The  incessant  drink — I  forgave  him  that. 

PAGELLO.     And  the  ballet  dancer? 

GEORGE.     (Bitterly)     That,  too,  my  friend.     Do 
[72] 


[Act  II}  MADAME  SAND 

you  think  that  mattered?  No.  All  that  is  nothing 
— nothing;  but  he  has  committed  the  one  sin  a 
woman  cannot  forgive.  (And  then  with  a  sincerity 
that  sounds  through  the  romance  of  it  all)  He  has 
ceased  to  love  me.  (She  is  weeping) 

PAGELLO.  And  you,  George,  you  no  longer  love 
him? 

GEORGE.  Pietro,  how  can  you  ask  me  that?  No, 
that  is  over. 

PAGELLO.  No  mother  could  have  nursed  him 
more  tenderly  than  you. 

GEORGE.    No,  no. 

PAGEULO.    I  loved  you  for  your  care  of  him. 

GEORGE.  (Getting  up)  Perhaps  his  pillow  needs 
turning. 

PAGELLO.     No,  do  not  disturb  him. 

GEORGE.  I  would  give  my  life  rather  than  see  him 
suffer. 

PAGELLO.  The  world  will  never  know  what  you 
have  done  for  him. 

GEORGE.  (For  the  moment  forgetting  her  itch 
ing  pen)  Never,  never,  Pietro,  but  does  that  mat 
ter?  (She  is  over  at  the  bedside,  a  symbol  of  sac 
rificial  duty)  I  at  least  have  kept  my  faith.  (Then 
reminiscently)  How  he  urged  me  to  go  with  him 
to  Italy,  when  I  hesitated. 

(  Then  she  is  back  at  the  table,  weeping  and 
slicing  a  lemon  as  she  speaks) 

GEORGE.  (With  deep  meaning)  You  came  just 
in  time,  Pietro. 

[73] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

PAGELLO.  (Again  with  a  tinge  of  professional 
pride)  I  hope  I  have  helped  him,  the  case  wasn't 
easy. 

GEORGE.  (Dramatically)  It  is  me  whom  you 
have  lifted  from  the  grave. 

PAGELLO.    You? 

GEORGE.     (Darkly)    I  had  decided  to  die. 

PAGELLO.     You? 

GEORGE.  The  day  before  you  came  into  my  life. 
I  had  planned  to  leap  from  the  Campanile  in  the 
afternoon  just  when  the  band  was  playing  so  that 
all  the  world  might  know  what  he  had  done  to  me. 

PAGELLO.  (Stirred)  You  must  stop  writing — 
you're  tired,  overstrained. 

GEORGE.  (Tenderly)  Ah!  Pietro.  Now  I  am 
better.  God  has  sent  you.  Can  you  know  what  you 
mean  to  me?  Help  me  to  be  strong. 

PAGELLO.  I  too  thank  God  for  the  day  I  chanced 
to  pass  your  window. 

GEORGE.  (Suddenly,  her  hand  on  his)  Chance! 
Chance!  And  in  that  little  word  lies  all  the  joy  and 
sorrow  of  the  world. 

(Pause.  Farther  in  the  distance  can  be 
heard  the  sound  of  the  serenata.  PAGELLO 
goes  to  the  window.) 

PAGELLO.  (Pointing  to  the  balcony)  It  was  here 
you  stood.  De  Musset  was  next  you.  There  was 
something  strange  about  you,  as  you  flecked  the 
ashes  from  your  cigar.  I  looked  up.  (He  is  back 
from  the  window) 


[Act  II]  MADAME  SAND 

GEORGE.  I  remember,  Pietro.  (She  gleams  up 
at  him) 

PAGELLO.     Was  it  a  sort  of  mesmerism? 

GEORGE.  Older  than  Mesmer,  Pietro,  man  call 
ing  unto  woman.  It  began  in  Eden. 

PAGELLO.     It  was  as  if  we  spoke. 

GEORGE.  (Lyrically)  Our  hearts  were  answer 
ing  one  another. 

(The  tenor's  song  lifts  in  the  distance) 

PAGEI/LO.  All  day  I  thought  of  the  beauty  of 
your  sad  eyes. 

GEORGE.  (Gently)  Beauty, — no,  my  friend. 
They  were  dim  with  weeping. 

PAGELLO.  All  my  visits  seemed  dull  to  me.  Even 
my  most  serious  case — a  fat  Turk  dying  of  typhus 
didn't  interest  me.  Whilst  I  bled  him,  I  thought  of 
you. 

GEORGE.  (Sweetly,  accepting  the  compliment) 
Yes,  Pietro? 

-PAGEI/LO.  Back  in  my  office,  I  could  think  of 
nothing  but  you. 

(There  is  a  restless  move  from  the  sleeper 
behind  the  curtains,  but  GEORGE, — who  for 
a  long  while  has  heard  no  such  tenderness  as 
this, — doesn't  notice  it) 

PAGELLO.     You — you. 

GEORGE.  And  I,  Pietro,  I  of  you.  As  I  leaned 
over  my  writing,  I  saw  you.  Do  you  remember 
Dante? — your  Dante — Paola,  Francesca, — only  I 
must  change  the  words  a  little.  (She  smiles  faintly) 

[75] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

I  must  say;  that  day  I  wrote  no  more.  (She  drifts 
over  to  the  window.  She  leans  out)  Ah!  Pietro,  the 
night  is  like  a  drawn  sword.  Listen,  the  very  stars 
are  singing. 

PAGELLO.  (A  little  confuted)  No,  that's  the 
tenor  at  the  serenata.  Ah,  how  I  love  you!  That 
day  even  Dr.  Ganetti's  book  on  gall-stones  couldn't 
interest  me. 

GEORGE.  No,  Pietro?  (She  is  back  at  the  table, 
he  follows  her) 

PAGELLO.  Always  across  the  page  I  saw  the  scar 
let  of  the  scarf  that  you  wore  about  your  head. 

(They  are  leaning  across  the  table,  their 
hands  clasped  together) 

PAGELLO.  (Passionately)   You  love  me,  George? — 

GEORGE.  (Sweetly,  simply,  all  that  is  deepest  in 
her  wettmg  up)  I  love  you,  Pietro.  Why  I  do  not 
know.  I  love  you  as  I  have  never  loved  before.  All 
my  other  love  has  been  but  as  a  preparation  for  this 
love  of  ours  which  shall  last  forever.  (Another 
sigh  from  the  bed)  Sh — he  is  awake. 

PAGELLO.  No,  if  he  has  taken  the  powder  he  will 
sleep  till  morning.  (He  is  around  the  table  next  to 
her)  George,  George,  how  grateful  I  am  to  God 
that  so  beautiful  a  soul  as  yours  has  bent  down  to 
me. 

GEORGE.    Bent,  my  darling?    No!    It  is  you  who 
have  lifted  me  from  despair.     (They  are  about  to 
embrace.     The  sleeper  is  again  restless.     She  whis 
pers)     Sh — we  are  much  too  loud. 
[76] 


[Act II]      i&      MADAME  SAND 

fLove  in  the  shadow  of  the  patient's  bed  is 
tibo  incongruous  even  for  her  artist's  na 
ture) 

GEORGE.  (With  an  attempt  at  readjustment) 
Let's  finish  our  tea.  It's  from  India.  Alfred  bought 
it  in  the  Rialto.  It  cost  four  lire. 

PAGELLO.     What !     That's  a  lot  of  money. 
GEORGE.     Nothing  is  too  fine  for  Alfred.     (Then 
with  a  sad  little  laugh  in  her  "voice)     It  was  my 
money. 

(She  pours  out  the  tea.     There  is  only  one 

cup.    PAGELLO  not  noticing  this,  takes  it  up) 

PAGELIX).     (Sipping  his  tea)     It  tastes  strange. 

GEORGE.      (Fantastically)      Nude  girls  gathered 

it. 

PAGELLO.    It  certainly  does  taste  different. 
GEORGE.     (Continuing)    It's  what  the  jeweled  and 
drowsy  nabobs   sip  whilst   they  loll  in   their  ham 
mocks  of  spun  silk. 

(She  goes  over  to  her  desk  and  makes  a 
note  on  the  back  of  one  of  the  sheets  of  her 
manuscript  paper) 

GEORGE.     (Writing)    That's  a  beautiful  sentence. 
It  has  the  odor  of  twilights  in  the  East. 
PAGEI/LO.    The  tea? 

GEORGE.     No,  darling,  my  words.     You  mustn't 
be  too  literal.    That's  what  too  much  science  does. 

(As  she  passes  him  on  her  way  back  to  the 
table,  she  lovingly  taps  his  head) 
GEORGE.     (Smiling)    All  the  night  is  in  your  eyes. 

* 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

PAGELLO.  (Slipping  his  arm  about  her)  Let's 
go  out  on  the  balcony.  By  now  the  crowds  are  far 
beyond  the  Piazzetta.  (He  takes  a  step  towards 
her) 

GEORGE.  (Admonishing  him,  as  she  glances  to 
ward  the  bed)  No,  no,  Pietro,  you  are  too  impet 
uous.  Our  poor  Alfred  might  need  something. 

PAGELLO.  He  is  almost  well,  to-morrow  he  can 
get  up.  (He  takes  up  his  tea-cup) 

GEORGE.      I  am  waiting  till  he  is   strong  again. 
(She  glances  at  the  doctor)     Then  he  must  be  told. 
PAGELLO.     He  has  my  pity.  Sooner  or  later  he 
would  find  out. 

GEORGE.    Yes — we  are  above  subterfuge. 
PAGEL.LO.     (Sipping   his    tea)     But    you    aren't 
drinking.     (He  looks  down  at  the  table  to  hand  her 
the  other  cup)     Why  look, — there  is  only  one. 

GEORGE.  Isn't  one  enough,  Pietro?  (She  is  over 
next  to  him,)  I  shall  sup  from  yours. 

PAGELLO.  (Tenderly)  Then  you  must  bend 
down. 

(And  she  does  so,  and  his  arm  goes  about 
her  waist.  And  the  next  moment  she  is  in  his 
lap.  And  their  mouths  are  almost  touching 
as  they  press  the  cup  to  their  lips.  And  at 
this  moment  ALFRED'S  night-capped  head 
pops  out  through  the  curtains  of  the  bed  be 
hind  them.  Tableau.  He  choices  back  an 
exclamation  of  amazement  and  the  curtains 
hanging  about  him  tremble) 
[78]  ^ 


[Act  III  MADAME  SAND 

GEORGE.  (  Wistfully)  There  now — I  have  had 
my  tea. 

PAGELLO.     {Ardently)     And  I  shall  have  my  kiss. 

GEORGE.     (Faintly)     Pietro!     Pietro ! 

(And  ALFRED,  pale  as  the  curtains  about 
him,  leans  forward,  watching  them.  And 
passionately  they  embrace  and  then  suddenly 
she  jumps  up  and  as  suddenly  ALFRED  drops 
back  behind  the  curtains) 

GEORGE.  (The  "eclaircissement"  has  come)  Now 
I  understand  everything.  I  see  it  all  clearly. 

PAGELLO.  (Quite  taken  by  surprise)  What's 
the  matter? 

GEORGE.    We  must  go  away,  and  at  once. 

PAGELLO.    What — 

GEORGE.  We  cannot  stay.  It  is  a  desecration,  no 
not  here,  not  here.  It  is  an  insult  to  this  love  of  ours. 
We  dare  not  hesitate. 

PAGELLO.     I — George — 

GEORGE.    Life  is  calling  us.    This  room  stifles  me. 

PAGELLO.  (Practical  as  ever)  Then  let's  go 
out  on  the  balcony. 

GEORGE.     No,  no,  come,  come  away,  away. 

PAGELLO.  (Quite  misunderstanding  her  dynamic 
impetuosity)  Shall  we  go  to  the  Lido?  Shall  I 
call  a  gondola? 

GEORGE.  No,  no,  to  the  Alpine  valleys.  I  arn 
dressed  for  climbing. 

PAGELLO.     (Completely  stupefied)  What!  George! 

GEORGE.     It    is    spring — spring.      (The    thought 

[79]    ' 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

gives  a  buoyant  ring  to  her  voice)     We  will  wander 

hand  in  hand  like  innocent,  laughing  children,  and 

we  will  love  to  the  sound  of  the  tumbling  cascades. 

(PAGELLO  stands  looking  at  her  in  wonder) 

GEORGE.     And  then — Paris.     We've  got  to  be  in 

time,    Pietro,    to    see   my   little   darlings,    Solange, 

Maurice,  take  their  prizes  at  school. 

PAGELLO.    (  Who  can  scarcely  gasp)    To  Paris — 
GEORGE.     And  to  freedom!     Come! 

(She  glances  toward  the  bed.    ALFRED,  his 
head  poked  out  on  the  other  side,  is  listening) 
Let  us  not  hesitate.    A  moment  may  shatter — all. 
PAGELLO.     (Completely  at  a  loss)    But — 
GEORGE.     For  weeks,  weeks   I  have  known  this 
would  come.     I  have  prophetic  visions.     To-mor 
row,  the  day  after,  it  will  be  the  same.     I  cannot 
live  in  the  shadow  of  these  memories. 

PAGELLO.  (Not  quite  keyed  to  such  speed)  And 
— de  Musset — ? 

GEORGE.  He  shall  be  told.  But  now,  now  we  can 
not  wait.  We  must  leave  together.  Destiny  has 
spoken. 

(She  is  in  his  arms,  and  ALFRED  is  leaning 
half  out  of  bed.  His  intentions  are  patently 
to  have  something  to  do  with  this  destiny,  but 
as  GEORGE  sweeps  forward,  he  involuntarily 
slips  back) 

GEORGE.     Come,  Pietro. 

PAGELLO.     (Not    knowing    what    to    say)     And 
leave  Venice? — George — 
[80] 


[Act  II]  MADAME  SAND 

GEORGE.  I  have  been  sent  to  save  you,  you  must 
go  lest  your  future  sink  in  the  mud  of  these  lan 
guorous  lagoons.  The  world  is  waiting  to  receive 
you. 

PAGELLO.    And  my  patients? 

GEORGE.  (Inspirationally)  Your  patients — why 
emperors  shall  call  you  in  for  gall-stones. 

PAGELLO.     (Still  unpersuaded)     And  my  mother? 

GEORGE.  (Involuntarily)  Mother,  mother.  No, 
no.  That  mustn't  happen  again.  (But  in  a  moment 
she  has  recovered)  You  must  be  free  to  realize 
yourself.  I  have  done  that.  I  am  free. 

PAGELLO.     (Still  doubtful)     And  my  father? 

GEORGE.  Have  you  any  aunts  or  uncles?  Your 
father,  what  of  him? 

PAGELLO.     He  will  never  consent  to  this. 

GEORGE.     I  shall  persuade  him. 

PAGELLO.     (In  amazement)     You? 

GEORGE.  He  is  eating  ices  in  the  Piazzetta.  He 
is  a  scholar.  You  told  me  this.  A  scholar  who  is 
eating  ices — the  combination  proves  him  gentle.  He 
will  understand.  He  will  bless  you  and  send  you 
with  me. 

PAGELLO.     But — 

GEORGE.  Again  but — nothing  but  buts.  Come, 
Pietro.  Come. 

(They  are  at  the  door) 

PAGELLO.  (Pointing  to  her  trousers)  Can  you 
go  like  that? 

GEORGE.     Yes.     Venice  has  got  used  to  me. 

[81] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

PAGELLO.     This  is  madness. 
GEORGE.     Love  has   spoken. 

PAGELLO.  But  my  father  will  never  consent  to 
this. 

GEORGE.  (  Undaunted}  I  know  a  parent's  heart. 
(ALFRED  is  about  to  catt  out)  I  have  not  lived  my 
life  for  nothing.  Come!  The  scent  of  the  almond 
bloom  is  calling. 

(And  half  dragging  him  after  her  they 
are  gone.  ALFRED  gazes  after  them  in, 
speechless  astonishment.  Then  he  tries  to 
get  up  to  follow.  He  is  too  weak.  He  fatts 
back  on  the  bed.  Very  far  in  the  distance 
the  noise  of  the  serenata  can  be  heard.  Slowly 
he  rouses  himself.  He  pours  out  some  brandy 
which  stands  on  the  little  table  near  the 
bed.  Half  swooning  he  reaches  the  window. 
He  tries  to  call  out.  His  strength  fails  him. 
He  leans  against  the  window  frame.  Sud 
denly  there  is  a  knock  at  the  door  and  he 
turns  to  see  PAUL  at  the  threshold) 
ALFRED.  Paul ! 

PAUL.  Good  God,  Alfred,  what's  the  matter? 
You  look  half  dead. 

ALFRED.     (Faintly)     Help  me  back  to  bed. 
PAUL.     Where's  George? 

(ALFRED  leaning  on  him  reaches  the  bed) 
ALFRED.     Eating  ices  on  the  Piazzetta. 
PAUL.     She  leaves  you  alone  like  this? 
ALFRED.      She  must  have  her  ices.      (He  pours 
[82] 


[Act  II}  MADAME  SAND 

out  another  glass  of  brandy)    You  didn't  write  you 
were  coming.     What  brings  you  to  Venice? 

PAUL.     Mother  sent  me.     She  was  uneasy. 

ALFRED.     Uneasy? 

PAUL.  Yes.  You  and  George.  Your  letters  came 
less  frequently. 

ALFRED.  Pve  been  busy.  I've  started  three  trag 
edies,  four  comedies  and  a  book  of  poems.  How's 
mother  ? 

PAUL.  She  sends  her  kindliest  greetings  to 
George. 

ALFRED.      (Smiling  faintly)     Yes — 

PAUL.     When  will  George  be  back? 

ALFRED.     When? 

PAUL.  Mother  is  so  grateful  to  her.  Buloz  says 
she's  taken  such  good  care  of  you. 

ALFRED.     And — 

PAUL.  But  lately  he's  been  silent.  Mother  drove 
to  his  office  every  day. 

ALFRED.     Poor  Buloz — 

PAUL.  And  all  he  would  do  was  to  sit  there  look 
ing  at  her  strangely  thru  his  monocle. 

ALFRED.  And  mother,  I  suppose,  would  stare 
back  thru  her  lorgnon.  Curious,  isn't  it,  Paul? 
Sometimes  the  harder  people  look  the  less  they  see. 

PAUL.  Of  course  I  told  her  everything  was  all 
right. 

ALFRED.     (On  the  verge  of  laughter)     Of  course. 

PAUL.    I  saw  Heine. 

ALFRED.     Yes  ? 

[83] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

PAUL.  Said  he  knew  nothing  but  he  advised  me 
to  leave  it  all  to  George.  Said  that  she  would  man 
age  somehow. 

ALFRED.  She  has  managed, —  somehow.  (He  is 
laughing  to  him* elf) 

PAUL.     I  told  Heine  I  was  going  to  Venice. 

ALFRED.     Yes. 

PAUL.     He  sent  you  a  message 

ALFRED.    A  blessing  that  sneers? 

PAUL.  No,  he  told  me  to  tell  you  that  Hell  is  the 
place  where  the  satisfied  compare  disappointments. 

ALFRED.    He  knows. 

PAUL.  You're  so  white,  Alfred,  what's  the  mat 
ter? 

ALFRED.  I've  been  ill.  Sunstroke,  lying  on  the 
beach  at  the  Lido. 

PAUL.     You  should  have  known  better. 

ALFRED.  I  couldn't  get  away.  George  insisted 
on  reading  me  her  last  six  chapters.  Such  rubbish ! 
Perhaps  it  was  the  book  and  not  the  sun. 

PAUL.    You're  better  now? 

ALFRED.     To-morrow  I'll  be  about  again. 

PAUL.  Mother  sent  you  this.  (He  hands  him 
a  letter) 

ALFRED.  (Slipping  it  under  his  pittow)  How 
much? 

PAUL.     A  thousand  francs. 

ALFRED.      (Petulantly  flinging  himself   back   on 
the  pillow)     But  I  needed  fifteen  hundred.     Has  she 
forgiven  my  going? 
[84]   ' 


[Act  II]  MADAME  SAND 

PAUL.    A  week  after  and  she  was  glad  you'd  gone. 

ALFRED.     Glad  ? 

PAUL,.     Said  it  would  do  you  good  to  see  life. 

ALFRED.  Yes — Yes — It's  done  me  good.  Have 
a  bit  of  brandy,  Paul.  (He  sits  up  and  pours  out 
a  little  in  a  glass) 

PAUL.  As  I.  came  by  two  men  raced  past  me. 
They  almost  knocked  me  over. 

ALFRED.  (Sipping  his  brandy)  You're  not 
easily  bowled  over,  are  you,  Paul? 

PAUL.  These  Italians  have  such  brutal  manners. 
But  just  the  same  I  was  amused. 

ALFRED.     Yes. 

PAUL.  One  of  them  bore  the  strangest  resem 
blance  to  George. 

ALFRED.     Naturally. 

PAUL.     What? 

ALFRED.     Have  a  bit  of  brandy. 

PAUL.     Why  did  you  say  naturally? 

ALFRED.  (Speaking  slowly  and  rather  amused 
watching  the  effect  on  PAUL)  It  was  George. 

PAUL.  What?  George?  Running  thru  the  streets 
with  another  man  dressed  like  that. 

ALFRED.  (A  twinkle  in  his  voice)  To  hesitate 
is  to  hinder  history. 

PAUL.  Can't  you  be  serious?  Where  were  they 
running  to? 

ALFRED.  As  far  as  their  trousered  legs  can  carry 
them. 

PAUL.     What? 

[85] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

ALFRED.  If  something  doesn't  stop  them  they'll 
reach  the  end  of  the  earth  and  then  drop  off. 

PAUL.     You  mean  the  Grand  Canal? 

ALFRED.  Not  exactly.  But  something  will  stop 
them. 

PAUL.    I  hope  so.    Can  she  swim  ? 

ALFRED.  In  any  waters.  But  she'll  be  stopped 
unless  I  am  mistaken  and  by  something  she  doesn't 
quite  expect.  The  old  man's  a  scholar. 

PAUL.     (In  the  dark)     What? 

ALFRED.     She'll  bump  into  his  papa. 

PAUL.      (Mystified)      Papa? 

ALFRED.  Yes.  The  papa  of  the  other  man  who 
nearly  knocked  you  over. 

PAUL.     I— 

ALFRED.  (Shedding  the  light)  She  is  planning 
to  elope  with  him. 

PAUL.     (Springing  up)     Then  it's  ended? 

ALFRED.  How  swiftly  you  deduce.  A  great  phi 
losopher  lies  buried  deep — very  deep,  in  you. 

PAUL.  If  ever  again  I  believe  in  a  woman  I'll 
cease  to  believe  in  God.  I've  come  just  in  time. 
Mother  was  right  to  send  me.  Perhaps  I  can  patch 
it  up. 

ALFRED.  No,  leave  it  torn.  That's  how  the  light 
soaks  thru. 

PAUL.     (Sympathetically    coming    towards    him.) 
My  poor,  poor  Alfred.     Don't  let  it  hurt  too  much. 
Paris   is    crowded  with   women.      They   mayn't    all 
know  literature  but  nearly  all  know  love. 
[86] 


[Act  II]  MADAME  SAND 

ALFRED.    Yes,  Paid. 

PAUL,.     My  poor,  poor  brother. 

ALFRED.  My  poor,  poor  imbecile.  Thank  God 
it's  over!  I  wish  she  were  in  Hell! 

(And  PAUL  flops  back  into  his  chair  and 
then  ALFRED  lets  loose  what  has  been  stor 
ing  up  in  him  for  months) 

ALFRED.  I  can't  bear  her  about  me.  She's  like 
a  noisy  old  clock  that  can't  stop  ticking.  Why,  she 
actually  had  the  indelicacy  when  I  lay  here  recov 
ering  from  my  sunstroke  (He  takes  a  gulp  of 
brandy)  to  sit  next  to  my  bed  scratching  away  all 
night  at  her  endless  novels.  She  writes  as  a  cow 
gives  milk.  All  she  has  to  do  is  to  jerk  at  her 
mind.  Sometimes  I  drank  a  little  to  forget.  (PAUL 
in  silent  astonishment  sits  listening)  There  are 
two  ways  to  get  to  know  a  person,  Paul.  Gambling 
with  them  or  travelling  with  them.  The  first  is 
better,  it's  over  sooner.  (His  pent-up  vehemence 
comes  pouring  out)  She  has  the  soul  of  a  bour- 
goise.  One  day  I  sat  there  trying  to  write  and 
what  do  you  think  I  heard  in  the  next  room?  She 
was  telling  the  chambermaid — the  chambermaid, 
Paul,  how  her  mother  was  dancing  at  a  ball  a  month 
before  her  marriage  and  how  she  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  quadrille  and  five  minutes  afterwards 
gave  birth  to  George. 

PAUL.     My  God — no — 

ALFRED.  I  called  her  in.  I  remonstrated  with  her 
and  she  sneered  at  my  hypocritical  breeding. 

[87] 


MADAME  SAND  {Act  II] 

PAUL.  And  could  you  expect  her  to  understand 
that? 

ALFRED.  She  laughed  at  me  and  said  that  many 
of  the  best  family  trees  bore  the  worst  fruit.  I 
rushed  away  and  drank,  drank,  drank  (And  he  does 
so)  to  forget  the  vulgarity  of  it  all. 

PAUL.     (Commiseratingly)     My  poor  Alfred! 

ALFRED.  And  when  I  got  back,  there  she  sat 
scribbling.  All  my  beautiful,  glorious  ideas  deserted 
me.  There  she  sat — scribbling,  scribbling  all  the 
night  long,  scratching  away  like  a  rusty  old  file. 

(He  is  exhausted  and  falls  weakly  back  on 
the  bed) 

PAUL.  (Leaning  over  him)  My  poor  brother, 
what  you  have  lived  thru. 

ALFRED.  Think  of  it,  Paul.  Only  a  few  minutes 
ago  I  caught  them  kissing,  actually  kissing,  in  the 
shadow  of  my  bed, — my  bed  of  torture. 

PAUL.     (Slowly)    What  will  mother  say? 

ALFRED.     She  must  never  know. 

PAUL.  Two  weeks  and  the  boulevards  will  be 
gabbing.  George  tells  everything  to  Buloz. 

ALFRED.  She  tells  everything  to  everybody. 
(Then  half  bitterly,  half  humorously}  Copy — copy. 

PAUL.  But  I'll  defend  you  now  that  I  know  the 
truth. 

ALFRED.     (Suddenly  sitting  up)     What? 

PAUL.  I'll  answer  her.  Leave  it  to  me ;  wait  and 
see. 

ALFRED.      (Making  the  most  of  the  moment  by 
[88] 


[Act  II}  MADAME  SAND 

adding  to  the  data)  There  she  lay  in  his  arms, 
Paul,  drinking  my  tea  from  the  one  cup,  both  of 
them,  whilst  she  mumbled  something  about  haste 
and  almond  blossoms. 

PAUL.  And  so  George  the  untiring,  weary  of  the 
de  Musset  doll,  tosses  the  broken  puppet  into  a 
corner. 

ALFRED.  God  knows  how  kind,  how  gentle,  I 
have  been  with  her.  (And  then  he  too  begins  think 
ing  of  the  beginning  of  their  love  in  Paris)  How 
she  urged  me  to  go  to  Italy  when  I  hesitated.  I 
at  least  have  been  faithful. 

PAUL.    And  now  she's  leaving  you? 
ALFRED.     If  fate  is  kind  and  the  old  father  is 
a  fool.     If  he  can't  stop  her  nothing  will.     Listen, 
they  are  coming  back.     (He  points  to  a  door  beyond 
the  bed)     Quick,  wait  in  there. 

(And  Jie  is  about  to  crawl  back  into  bed 
but  the  next  instant  the  door  flies  open  and 
LUCREZIA     VIOLENTE,     PAGELLO'S     mistress, 
rushes  into   the  room.     She  is   tense,   dark, 
scented,  a  colorful  combination  of  a  languor 
ous  poppy  when  happy  and  an  angry  fire 
cracker  when  stirred.     She  slams   the  door 
behind  her  and  leans  against  it) 
LUCREZIA.      (Panting)     I  must  speak  with  you, 
you.     (She  glares  at  ALFRED)     You! 

(And  PAUL  with  a  sly,  knowing  glance 
at  his  brother,  begins  to  whistle  a  sprightly 
snatch  of  a  love  song  and  then  trips  over  to 

[89] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

examine  more  closely  the  beautiful,   though 
tempestuous  LUCREZIA) 

ALFRED.  (To  PAUL,)  What  are  you  doing? 
What's  the  matter  with  you? 

PAUL.  (Smiling  significantly)  So!  So!  My 
naughty,  naughty  brother.  And  this  is  why  the 
George  gets  on  your  poor  nerves.  But  I  don't  blame 
you,  Alfred,  really  I  don't. 

(Very  intimately  he  begin*  ogling  LUCRE 
ZIA  and  whistling  even  louder.    He  steps  with 
a  swaggering  familiarity  closer  to  her) 
ALFRED.     (Coming  between  them)     I  tell  you  to 
wait  in  the  next  room. 

PAUL.  (Laughing)  All  right.  Two's  company, 
three's  a  chaperon. 

(And  he  enjoys  his  wit  immensely,  to  the 
intense  discomfort  of  ALFRED  and  the  as 
tonishment  of  LUCREZIA) 

ALFRED.  Get  out.  I  tell  you  I've  never  seen  the 
girl  before. 

PAUL.     Then  thank  the  dear  gods  who  sent  her. 
(And  PAUL  backs  out  of  the  room,  still 
whistling,  with  an  intimate  wave  of  his  hand 
to  LUCREZIA) 
ALFRED.     Who  are  you? 

LUCREZIA.  (With  terrific  speed  a*  she  speaks 
throughout)  Lucrezia  Maria  Camilla  Elvira  Vio- 
lente. 

ALFRED.     (Rather  gallantly  but  a  bit  uncertain) 
And  what  do  you  wish  with  me,  my  dear? 
[90] 


[Act  III  MADAME  SAND 

LUCREZIA.  (Resenting  his  tone}  What  do  you 
think? 

ALFRED.     (Taking  Tier  in)     Well — er — er — 

(LUCREZIA  with  a  slight  swagger  steps  to 
wards  him) 

LUCREZIA.      Well ! 

ALFRED.  (Smiling  at  her)  Did  the  French  Con 
sul  send  you  to  me? 

LUCREZIA.     No  one  has  sent  me. 

ALFRED.     I  haven't  seen  you  at  the  serenatas. 

LUCREZIA.     No. 

ALFRED.     Nor  at  the  opera. 

LUCREZIA.    No. 

ALFRED.  Nor  in  the  Piazzetta,  watching  the  fire 
works. 

LUCREZIA.     (As  he  steps  a  little  nearer)    No.  No. 

ALFRED.  (Not  quite  sure  of  his  ground  but  he  is 
ALFRED  and  she  is  beautiful)  Well,  you  see  (And 
then  very  sweetly),  my  dear — (He  is  closer  to  her) 

LUCREZIA.  (Starting  back)  My  dear!  How 
dare  you !  How  dare  you !  Dio  Mio,  Dio  Mio,  how 
dare  you? 

ALFRED.  Forgive  me,  my  dear,  but  you  see  I  am 
a  man — it  is  night — You  come  to  my  room — 

LUCREZIA.  Yes,  yes,  I  come  to  your  room.  (She 
looks  about  her) 

ALFRED.    Well,  then,  who  are  you? 

LUCREZIA.     Lucrezia,  Maria — 

ALFRED.  (Stemming  the  tide)  Yes,  yes — but 
where  do  you  come  from? 

[91] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

LUCREZIA.     From  Castelfranco. 

ALFRED.     And  what  do  you  want  with  me? 

LUCREZIA.  (Not  tempering  her  disdain)  You — 
I  want  nothing  with  you. 

ALFRED.  (Resenting  this,  his  tone  a  mixture  of 
surprise  and  disappointment)  Then  why  do  you 
come  here? 

LUCREZIA.  (Almost  spitting  the  words  in  his  face) 
It  is  your  woman,  your  woman  that  I  want. 

ALFRED.  (In  the  dark)  What — why,  I've  never 
even  seen  you  before. 

LUCREZIA.  You!  Bah!  (With  a  gesture  as 
though  wiping  him  off  her  hands)  I  am  an  Italian. 
I  want  to  see  this  George  Sand.  (She  has  a  curi 
ous  way  of  sounding  the  e  in  George) 

ALFRED.  (Backing  into  a  chair  at  the  table) 
Yes.  I  see  that  you're  an  Italian.  And  what  do 
you  want  with  Mme.  Sand? 

LUCREZIA.  (Mysteriously  handling  something 
which  is  in  lier  belt  under  her  shawl  and  speaking 
very  simply  like  a  wide  eyed  child)  I  wish  to  kill 
her. 

ALFRED.  (Darting  back)  Good  God!  Who  are 
you?  What  are  you? 

LUCREZIA.  (Coming  close  to  him  and  leaning  in 
his  face  as  site  speaks  the  words  slowly  and  with 
intense  significance)  I  am  a  friend — a  good  friend 
— of  Dr.  Pietro  Pagello.  Do  you  understand  me, 
you  Frenchman? 
[92] 


[Act  1 1]  MADAME  SAND 

ALFRED.  (The  light  breaking}  How  did  you  get 
in  here? 

LUCREZIA.  I  said  I  had  come  to  nurse  the  invalid. 
Bah!  (She  glares  at  him  in  abject  disgust)  And 
now  where  is  this  Signora  George  Sand? 

ALFRED.  She  has  gone  out  with — (He  stops 
short,  LUCREZIA  watching  him)  With  a  friend — 
a  friend.  They  have  gone  to — to  (And  then  with  in 
spiration)  to  see  the  Punch  and  Judy  show. 
Madame  adores  to  watch  the  puppets  dance. 

LUCREZIA.  So.  Then  they  will  soon  be  back. 
(She  steps  towards  a  chair) 

ALFRED.  (Fencing)  No.  No.  That  was  last 
night.  To-night — to-night  they^— she — 

LUCREZIA.     (Pointing  it)     They —     Yes — 

ALFRED.  (A  bit  at  a  loss)  She — they, — yes, 
they — have  gone  by  moonlight  to  the  open  sea  be 
yond  Murano.  Yes — yes  (His  imagination  begins  to 
work)  Madame  couldn't  stand  the  noise  of  the 
serenata.  Listen,  it's  coming  back.  (The  boats 
on  the  Canal  have  shifted  and  are  coming  nearer) 
Listen ! 

LUCREZIA.  So!  So!  (She  draws  a  chair  away 
from  the  table  and  sits  watching  ALFRED)  Then 
I  will  wait  till  she  comes  back  from  this  open  sea 
beyond  Murano  with  this  friend.  (Her  breath 
comes  in  little  panting  gasps)  Madonna  mia,  this 
friend — this  friend. 

ALFRED.  (At  his  wit's  end)  They  may  stay  away 
all  night. 

[93] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

LUCEEZIA.  (Her  eyes  aflame)  Madonna  mia.  So 
it  has  come  to  that, — all  night. 

ALFRED.  That  is — Madame  sometimes  waits  to 
see  the  dawn  rise  over  the  sea — the  Adriatic,  you 
know. 

LUCREZIA.  (Less  imaginative  perhaps  but  quite 
his  match)  Then  I  will  stay  till  morning  till 
Madame  has  seen  this  dawn  rise  over  this  Adriatic. 

ALFRED.  You  can't  do  that,  Madame.  Can't  you 
see  I'm  in  my  dressing  gown? 

LUCREZIA.  If  you  are  so  modest,  my  little  French 
man,  then  go  back  to  bed.  I  didn't  come  to  talk 
with  you. 

ALFRED.  But  see  here — people  don't  do  that  sort 
of  thing.  Stop  and  think. 

LUCREZIA.  My  heart  speaks.  I  do  not  stop  to 
think. 

ALFRED.     No.     I  can  see  that. 

LUCREZIA.  What  do  I  care  what  you  see?  I  have 
come  to  save  my  Pietro.  I  shall  take  him  from  this 
George  Sand. 

(This  is  too  much  for  ALFRED.  Suddenly 
he  realizes  how  she  may  entangle  the  chances 
of  his  own  happy  and  imminent  release) 

ALFRED.  (With  intense  conviction)  No,  you 
mustn't,  you  mustn't  do  that. 

LUCREZIA.     (Jumping  up)    What — you  say  that? 

ALFRED.  (Rushing  along)  It  will  do  him  good. 
Let  him  see  life.  Madame  will  teach  him  much. 

LUCREZIA.     Madonna,    Madonna.     You    tell    me 
[94] 


[Act  I  I]  MADAME  SAND 

that.     You  dead  little  dove  of  a  man !    Are  you  not 
her  lover?  ,  ^ 

ALFRED.  (At  a  loss)  Yes — was — that  is — yes — 
yes,  of  course  I  am.  (His  emotions  are  mixed)  Now 
you  just  go  away  and  I'll  have  a  nice  little  talk 
with  George  and  she'll  send  him  back  to  you. 

LUCREZIA.  (The  hand  under  her  shawl  nervously 
twitching}  If — I — no,  no — there  is  nothing  but 
milk  in  your  veins. 

ALFRED.  (Vainly  groping  for  a  way  out)  Yes, 
yes,  lots  of  milk.  Goat's  milk.  I've  been  sick,  sun 
stroke.  He  makes  me  take  milk,  gallons  of  milk. 
He's  a  wonderful  doctor,  this  Dr.  Pagello. 

LUCREZIA.  (Her  hand  at  her  heart)  My  Pietro, 
— my  Pietro.  He  gives  you  milk? 

ALFRED.  (Grasping  the  straw)  It's  time  for  it 
now.  You'll  excuse  me,  good  evening.  I've  got  to 
go  out  for  my  milk. 

(He  hopefully  glances  towards  the  door 
but  LUCREZIA  is  unbudgeable.  He  tries  to 
take  a  step  but  he  is  too  weak  and  slips  back 
into  his  chair) 

LUCREZIA.  Go  back  to  your  bed  lest  you  faint 
like  a  woman. 

ALFRED.  (Weakly)  But  you  can't  sit  there  all 
night  long. 

LUCREZIA.     (Firmly)     No? 

ALFRED.  Look  here.  I'll —  (He  turns  to  move 
towards  her.  He  is  exhausted) 

[95] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

LUCREZIA.  (The  hand  wnder  her  shawl  twitching) 
Yes— 

(The  sound  of  the  serenata  comes  up  from 
the    waters — tambourines,    the    laughter    of 
women,  tJie  song  of  the  tenor) 
ALFRED.     Listen!     That's  a  song  of  love.     (He 
falters  towards  the  bed) 

LUCREZIA.  (With  a  sneer)  Love!  What  do 
you  know  of  love,  you  little  Frenchman? 

ALFRED.  (Throwing  himself  down)  This — only 
this.  Life  lays  the  trap  of  love  and  we,  poor  human 
fools,  are  crowding,  crowding  and  waiting  to  be 
caught.  (He  lies  back  a  moment  in  thought.  Then 
suddenly)  Ah!  No  sooner  is  she  out  of  the  way 
than  it  comes  back  to  me.  (Then  to  LUCREZIA) 
Bring  me  some  paper,  quick. 

LUCREZIA.     (Marvelling)     What? 
ALFRED.     From  that  desk.     There  in  the  corner. 
(LUCREZIA  resents  his  sudden,  shifting  im 
petuosity.     Her  experience  with  poets   has 
been  limited) 

LUCREZIA.  What !  You  dare  to  order  me — 
ALFRED.  Oh,  don't  mind  that.  Women  always 
do  what  I  ask  them.  My  mother  began  it.  (He 
tries  to  get  up  but  sinks  back  on  the  pillow) 
Quick!  Some  verses  have  come  to  me,  beautiful 
verses.  The  first  in  months. 

(There  is  something  pathetic  in  his  voice. 
LTTCREZIA  goes  towards  the  desk) 
ALFRED.    Yes.     That's  it.     Several  sheets. 
[96] 


[Act  II]  MADAME  SAND 

LUCREZIA.  (Lifting  up  some  of  the  pages  of 
GEOEGE'S  latest  romance)  This? 

ALFRED.  Yes,  yes.  It's  her  new  novel.  But 
she'll  never  miss  it.  Never.  (Angrily  LUCREZIA  is 
about  to  crush  the  papers  in  her  hand)  And  dip  a 
pen  for  me.  As  soon  as  she's  out.  Of  course,  of 
course,  I  might  have  known.  One  room  isn't  big 
enough  for  two  muses. 

LUCREZIA.  (Bringing  the  paper  and  pen  to  his 
bedside)  Here. 

ALFRED.  (Propping  himself  up)  Won't  you  go 
now? 

LUCREZIA.     What? 

ALFRED.     You  mustn't  stand  there  watching  me 

when  I  write.     It  makes  me  nervous.      (LUCREZIA 

glares  at  Mm  in  astonishment)     Go,  please,  please. 

(For  a  moment  he  forgets  her.    He  begins 

writing  whilst   she  backs   to   the   table  and 

sits  watching  him) 

LUCREZIA.  (Under  her  breath)  I  cannot  under 
stand  these  Frenchmen.  They  are  mad. 

(And  in  her  deep  disgust  she  goes  to  the 
window  and  stands  looking  out) 
ALFRED.      (Fanning  his   inspiration)      Yes — yes 
— yes — 

(His  pen  glides  over  the  paper.  Silence 
for  a  moment,  only  the  scratching  of  the 
quitt  is  heard.  Then  suddenly  voices  sound 
just  outside  the  door.  LUCREZIA  leaps  up 
Uke  a  smoldering  flame  that  is  hit  by  the 

[97] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

wind,  and  instinctively  glides  into  the  deep 
embrasure  of  the  window.  The  papers  fall 
from  ALFRED'S  hand  to  the  floor  as  swiftly 
Tie  draws  the  curtains  together  and  slips 
back  into  the  bed.  A  moment  and  GEORGE 
triumphantly  enters  smoking  a  huge  cigar 
and  at  her  heels  is  PAGELLO,  his  big  eyes 
fitted  with  love) 

PAGELLO.      Ah,   my  beloved,  how  you   spoke   to 
him.    There  were  tears  in  his  eyes.     Such  eloquence. 
(LUCREZIA  is  watching  them.    She  is  mys 
tified.     PAGELLO    is    PAGELLO    but    who    is 
GEORGE?      The   man's    costume   baffles    her, 
the  room  is  but  dimly  Ut.    But  then  GEORGE 
speaks) 
GEORGE.     No,  Pietro,  it  was  not  my  eloquence. 

(Then  the  girl  recognizes  her.  She  is 
about  to  spring  forward  but  GEORGE  goes 
on) 

GEORGE.  (Lyrically)  He  understood  my  sor 
row.  I  will  bless  and  remember  him  forever.  His 
heart  is  gentle.  There  is  only  one  wound  that  hurts 
my  happiness. 

PAGELLO.  There  is  much  perhaps  that  I  should 
tell  you. 

GEORGE.     No,    no,    not    you.     (Then   sadly    she 
glances  towards  the  bed)     He  must  be  told. 
PAGELLO.     Wait  until  to-morrow. 
GEORGE.     To-morrow    we    may    die.     Life    has 
spoken.    What  must  be,  must  be. 
[98] 


[Act  7/j  MADAME  SAND 

(She  goes   towards   the  bed.     She  draws 
back  the  curtains.     Tenderly  she  leans  over 
the  patient) 
GEORGE.      Alfred !      Alfred ! 

(A  moment's  quiet.     Then  ALFRED  stirs  in 
his  slumber.     Then  he  awakes) 
ALFRED.     (With  a  far-away  voice)     Ah!     You, 
George.     What  time  is  it?     You've  been  gone  so 
long.     (He  leans  out  of  bed  and  looks  about  him) 
Ah!     She  is  gone. 

(LUCREZIA  is  too  deep  in  the  window  for 
him  to  see  her,  but  she  too  is  leaning  for 
ward  listening) 

GEORGE.     (At  a  loss)     Who?     Who? 
ALFRED.    That's  well.    That  is  well.    She  is  gone. 
GEORGE.     (Mystified)     Who?     Who? 
ALFRED.     Perhaps  I've  been  dreaming.     I'm  so 
tired. 

PAGELLO.  Yes.  Lie  down.  (Then  softly  to 
GEORGE)  He  still  is  weak  and  imagines  that  he  sees 
things.  (He  draws  her  away  from  the  bed)  Wait 
until  to-morrow. 

GEORGE.     Sooner  or  later  we  must  tell  him. 
ALFRED.     (Trying  to  overhear  them)     What  are 
you  two  whispering  about?     Don't  tell  me  that  I've 
got  to  take  one  of  those  nasty  powders  and  more 
milk.     I'll  fling  it  out  of  the  window. 

GEORGE.  Yes.  He's  better.  Much  better.  It  is 
time. 

[99] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

goes  towards  the  bed  and  stands  for 
a  moment  looking  at  him.  Her  hesitancy 
worries  him) 

ALFRED.  (Encouragingly)  I'm  well  again. 
Strong  as  a  porter.  (He  glances  at  GEORGE)  Look. 
(And  expectantly  he  sits  bolt  upright  in  the  bed) 
My  sunstroke's  over. 

GEORGE.  Ah,  my  friend,  you  must  beware  of  this 
sun  that  comes  in  bottles. 

ALFRED.  Strong  as  two  porters  that  I've  seen 
somewheres. 

GEORGE.  (Putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  Her 
tone  is  simple  but  deeply  fraught)  Alfred,  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you. 

ALFRED.      (Eagerly)     Yes — yes — 

GEORGE.  (Almost  philosophically)  Life  is  so 
different  from  literature. 

ALFRED.     (Not  expecting  the  digression)    What? 

GEORGE.  Some  day  I  must  use  this  scene  and  I 
must  be  careful  to  keep  it  unelaborate. 

ALFRED.  (Lest  her  commentary  go  on  too  long) 
Doctor,  do  you  think  I'm  strong  enough  to  talk 
literature  ? 

GEORGE.  No,  my  friend,  I  haven't  come  to  speak 
of  literature — but  life.  But  I  was  thinking  after 
all  how  very  simple  reality  really  is.  Be  brave,  Al 
fred,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 

ALFRED.    Yes  ? 

GEORGE.  We  are  at  the  cross-roads.  Even  as 
[100] 


[Act  II}  MADAME  SAND 

Ruth  (A  puff  at  her  cigar)  and  Naomi,     (,4s  always 
God  and  the  Bible  are  her  refuge) 
ALFRED.      (Impatiently)     Yes — yes. 
GEORGE.      (Very   simply)      I   can   no   longer  be 
your  mistress,  Alfred.    I  can  only  be  your  friend.    I 
love  Dr.  Pagello. 

(A  pause.  Four  hearts  are  for  a  moment 
stitt.  From  the  water  lifts  the  sound  of  the 
serenata.  The  girl  in  the  window  starts  for 
ward  but  the  next  instant  out  of  the  bed 
comes  what  is  meant  to  be  a  heart-broken 
wail  of  despair) 

ALFRED.  (From  among  the  pillows)  George, 
George,  why  do  you  tell  me  this,  George? 

GEORGE.  (Beautifully)  Be  brave,  be  brave,  my 
friend.  (PAGELLO  stands  looking  at  her  in  rap 
ture)  I  tell  you  this  because  I  cannot  let  the 
shadow  of  a  lie  dim  the  fading  memory  of  what  once 
we  were  to  one  another.  (And  she  takes  a  long  deep 
pull  at  her  cigar) 

ALFRED.    George,  George,  how  can  I  bear  this? 
GEORGE.    We  are  but  born  to  bear.    We  poor  pil 
grims.      (And  she  smiles   tenderly  at   the  doctor) 
Life  is  our  cross.     (Then  she  turns  to  ALFRED)     I 
shall  remember  that  once  I  loved  you. 

ALFRED.  (Taking  her  hand  and  pressing  it  to 
his  lips)  Though  I  weep  I  shall  remember  (He  is 
perhaps  sobbing  a  little)  what  you  have  done  for 
me. 

[101] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

(LUCREZIA  m  blank-eyed  amazement  leans 
forward  listening  to  their  beautiful  pathos. 
GEORGE.     It  is  over,  over.     Our  poor  romance  is 
ended.     Time  has  written  (Then  she  turns  gracious 
ly  to  PAGELLO)  finite.     Come,  Pietro,  this  place  is 
no  longer  holy.     This  shrine  of  love  has  been  defiled. 
(And  then  in  mysterious  metaphor)     Something  has 
entered  in. 

(And  the  something  in  the  window  is  al 
most  convulsed  with  passionate  hate) 
GEORGE.    Come,  my  beloved.     (And  then  she  turns 
to  ALFRED,  speaking  with  childlike  frankness)     We 
must  go  from  here.     Out  into  the  light.     We  are  go 
ing   high   into    the   mountains   where   the    air    shall 
purify.    There,  there  perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  for 
get.     (She  turns  to  the  doctor)     Come,  my  beloved. 
(She  is  almost  in  his  arms  but  suddenly 
from  the  window  there  is  a  mad  little  yelp 
of    rage    and    the    next    instant    LUCREZIA 
springs  forward  confronting  her,  burning  in 
domitable) 

ALFRED.     (As  the  beautiful  structure  of  similes 
tumbles)     She!     She!     I  thought  she'd  gone. 
PAGELLO.     (As  tho  shot)     Lucrezia,  you!    You! 
GEORGE.     (Quite  calmly)   Good  evening,  Madame. 
Did  you  climb  up  the  columns  to  the  balcony? 

LUCREZIA.     You  shall  not  take  him.     You  shall 
not. 

GEORGE.     What,  Madame? 
LUCREZIA.    I  shall  kill  you. 
[102] 


[Act  II]  MADAME  SAND 

GEORGE.  (Oblivious)  I  can't  see  how  you  ever 
did  it  in  those  skirts. 

LUCREZIA.  (A  mixture  of  temper  and  tears) 
Pietro,  Pietronini,  caro  mio,  caro  mio — you  no 
longer  love  me — me.  (She  is  shrieking)  Dio, — Ma 
donna — you  no  longer  love  me. 

GEORGE.  I  beg  you,  Madame,  not  to  shout.  My 
friend  Monsieur  de  Musset  is  none  too  strong. 
Won't  you  be  seated? 

(And  GEORGE  sits  down  at  the  table  unbut 
toning  the  lowest  button  of  her  vest) 

LUCREZIA.  Who  are  you?  What  are  you?  You 
crazy  woman!  (Her  fingers  are  twitching)  You 
woman  in  breeches  dressed  like  that. 

PAGELLO.    Lucrezia,  be  still,  be  still. 

LUCREZIA.  (Poco  fortissimo)  No!  No!  She 
must  listen.  No  !  No ! 

GEORGE.  I  am  trying  to,  Madame,  but  you  make 
so  much  noise.  I  cannot  hear  you. 

LUCREZIA.  (Piu  forte)  I  make  noise!  No!  No! 
I  make  no  noise! 

(She  is  almost  dancing  in  her  rage) 

GEORGE.     What  a  fascinating  personality ! 

(And  she  goes  over  to  her  desk  and  brings 
over  some  manuscript  paper  and  a  pen) 

LUCREZIA.     I  spit  at  you. 

GEORGE.     No,  I  wouldn't  do  that.     It  isn't  nice. 

LUCREZIA.  Nice !  Nice !  I  dig  my  nails  in  your 
heart. 

GEORGE.     (Sweetly)     My  dear  girl,  save  up  all 

[103] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

that  energy  and  one  of  these  days  you'll  bring  beau 
tiful  children  into  this  ugly  world.  I  am  a  mother 
and  I  know. 

(LUCEEZIA  suddenly  whips  the  stiletto  from 
under  her  shawl  and  springs  towards 
GEOEGE) 

LUCBEZIA.  You  sneer,  you  short-haired  French  one. 
{And  she  makes  a  dash  towards  her.    PA 
GELLO    catches    her   by    the   wrist   and    the 
knife  falls  to  the  floor) 

PAGELLO.     For  God's  sake,  what  are  you  doing? 
GEOEGE.     (Calmly  taking  notes)     Ah!     What  a 
place  to  end  a  chapter. 

PAGELLO.     (Struggling  with  the  girl)      Do  you 
know  who  she  is? 

LUCEEZIA.      (Trying  to  get  away)     What  do  I 
care  who,  what  she  is. 

PAGELLO.     (With  a  sort  of  awe)     She  is  the  great 
George  Sand. 

(And  GEOEGE  glances  up  from  her  writ 
ing  smilingly  to  accept  the  compliment) 
PAGELLO.   She  is  a  famous  woman.   A  great  writer. 
(ALFEED  is  leaning  far  out  of  bed  clutch 
ing  one  of  the  posts) 

ALFEED.     Have  you  no  respect  for  literature? 
LUCEEZIA.     (In  blinding  scorn,  sizzling  over  like 
a  miniature  Vesuvius)    Literature!    What  do  I  care 
— literature,  lies,  lies.    I  too  know  literature.     (And 
then  in  her  rage  she  flings  out  all  the  names  she  can 
remember,  mixmg  geography  with  letters  to  justify 
[104] 


[Act  II]  MADAME  SAND 

her  claim)  Dante,  Dante,  Alighieri,  Tasso,  Cam 
panile,  San  Marco,  Venezia,  Ariosto,  Petrarca, 
Laura.  Literature,  Bah !  bah ! — lies,  lies  !  I  spit 
at  them.  I  spit  at  you. 

(She  is   again  going  for  GEORGE   wildly 

gesticulating  and  PAGELLO  again  intercepts 

her.   Suddenly  in  a  wild  paroxysm  of  passion 

she    clutches    him    to    her   breast.     By    this 

time  ALFRED  is  almost  tumblmg  out  of  bed 

and  GEORGE  sits  quietly  writing) 

LUCREZIA.     (Clinging  to  him,  her  voice  hot  with 

passion  and  rage)     I  love  you.     I  hate  you.     I  love 

you.     I  speak  your  name  when  I  sleep ;  when  I  go 

to  the  well  the  water  says,  Pietro,  and  I  drink,  and 

drink,  and  drink. 

GEORGE.  (  Writing  as  quickly  as  she  can)  Charm 
ing,  charming.  Do  you  mind  repeating  that?  How 
many  times  did  you  say  drink?  Alfred,  what  does 
fiction  know  of  life? 

(LUCREZIA  clings  to  PAGELLO  as  to  a  spar 
in  this  tossmg  sea  of  passion) 
LUCREZIA.     Pietro !   Pietronini ! 
ALFRED.     (Looking  at  GEORGE  and  speaking  into 
the  curtain  of  his  bed)     God!     That  woman,  even 

_  g  % 

now  she  can  write. 

GEORGE.  Ah !  What  a  scene  this  will  make  when 
I'm  thru  with  it.  Such  fervor,  such  reality.  Buloz 
will  be  delighted. 

(PAGELLO    has    forced   LUCREZIA    into    a 
chair.  In  a  frenzy  her  fists  beat  the  table) 

[105] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

GEORGE.  Don't  do  that,  my  dear,  or  I  can't 
write. 

{And  then  LUCREZIA,  her  passion  for  the 

moment  spent,  goes  forward,  her  head  in  her 

arms,  shaken  with  convulsive  weeping.    And 

then  GEORGE  springs  up  and  goes  over  to 

her.    Her  whole  manner  changes.    She  speaks 

to  her  as  site  would  to  an  angry  child) 

GEORGE.     You  have  my  pity,  Madame.     I  speak 

to  you  out  of  my  soul.     I  too  have  loved  and  lost. 

(Sorrowfully  she  glances  at  ALFRED)     That  is  the 

lot  of  us  poor  women.     We  give  our  love  only  to  be 

forsaken. 

PAGELLO.  (Half  in  a  whisper,  half  stupidly)  I 
wanted  to  tell  you,  tell  you  all. 

GEORGE.  No,  no,  don't  speak.  I  understand. 
(And  then  with  a  tone  of  universal  pity)  We  are 
but  human.  (By  a  glance  she  even  includes  ALFRED 
in  her  deep  love  for  humanity.  Then  sympathetically 
to  LUCREZIA)  Life  has  spoken  and  life  must  be  an 
swered.  He  has  come  to  save  me  when  my  nature 
faltered  and  he  shall  go  with  me — eventually — to 
Paris. 

(And  at  this  LUCREZIA  springs  up.  This 
is  the  last  straw.  Again  her  rage  begins  to 
bubble) 

LUCREZIA.     No.     No. 

GEORGE.     Not  right  away.     After  we  have  found 
love  in  the  Alpine  valleys.     Ah,  the  scent  of  the  al 
mond  blossoms. 
[106] 


[Act  II}  MADAME  SAND 

LUCREZIA.  (  Turning  on  PAGELLO )  You  have  de 
ceived  me.  Dio !  Dio !  You  have  lied  to  me.  You 
have  deserted  me. 

GEORGE.  (Gliding  between  them)  Madame,  you 
are  wrong.  He  has  not  deserted  you.  God  has  sent 
him. 

LUCREZIA.    No !    No ! 

GEORGE.  Who  can  change  the  choice  of  love?  It 
is  as  blind  as  we. 

LUCREZIA.  {By  this  time  strident)  No!  No! 
You  shall  not  take  him.  You  shall  not  take  him. 

GEORGE.  Love  is  our  master.  (This  is  almost  to 
herself.  A  sad  little  smile  plays  about  her  lips) 

LUCREZIA.  (Glaring  at  her)  You!  You  oil 
your  words  with  lies. 

(GEORGE  is  standing  in  a  sort  of  subli 
mated  ecstasy  lit  by  the  light  from  the  night 
lamp.  The  music  sounds  from  the  serenata. 
ALFRED  on  the  bed's  edge  sits  watching  her 
in  wonder) 

GEORGE.  (Her  head  shaking  slowly)  Love  gives 
us  power — power  but  to  obey. 

LUCREZIA.  (Almost  frightened)  Pietro!  Look! 
The  devil's  speaking  to  her.  Come  away.  Her  heart 
is  black. 

(A  moment's  pause.  They  all  look  at  her. 
Then  she  takes  a  deep  pull  at  her  cigar  and 
goes  over  to  her  desk  to  make  a  note  of  this 
power  of  love) 

GEORGE.      (To    LUCREZIA.     From    the    farthest 

[107] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

heights  of  sisterly  sympathy)     Madame,  you  have 
my  love. 

(LUCREZIA  makes  another  dash  for  the 
knife.  PAGELLO  stops  her) 

GEORGE.    Take  her  to  her  gondola,  Pietro.     (AL 
FRED  starts)     I  shall  watch  from  the  window. 

(And  PAGELLO  attempts  to  lead  the  strug 
gling  LUCREZIA  from  the  room) 
LUCREZIA.     (In  a  last  wild  frenzy)    You  shall  not 
take  him.     No!    No! 

GEORGE.     (Quietly)     Love  has  spoken. 

(PAGELLO  and  the  girl  have  almost  reached 
the  door) 

LUCREZIA.    I'll  follow  him.    I'll  save  him.    He  will 
come  back  to  me. 

ALFRED.     (Involuntarily)     I  wonder. 
LUCREZIA.    I  will  follow  you  to  Paris  or — to  Hell. 
(She  is  half  kissing,  half  beating  the  doc 
tor  as  he  leads  her  from  the  room) 
GEORGE.     (At  her  desk  making  a  last  note  or  so) 
What  a  wonderful  girl.     The  most  splendid  type  I 
have  seen  in  Italy.    Ah,  I  shall  be  sad  to  go. 

(And  then  she  glides  over  to  the  window 
and  leans  out  to  see  that  no  harm  comes  to 
PIETRO  ) 

ALFRED.      (Lifting  up  the  sheets  of  manuscript 
near  the  bed)     Look,  George,  I  have  been  reading 
your  last  few  pages.     They  are  wonderful.     How 
you  have  moved  me.     If  I  could  write  as  you — 
GEORGE.     I'll  do  even  better  after  to-night.     Ah ! 
[108] 


[Act  II]  MADAME  SAND 

There  they  are!     She  is  weeping.     How  gently  he 
helps  her  into  her  gondola. 

(ALFRED  braces  himself  with  another  swal 
low  of  brandy  and  steps  towards  her) 

ALFRED.  There  is  something  besides  farewell  that 
I  must  say  to  you. 

GEORGE.  (Oblivious)  He  shall  be  the  hero  of  my 
next  romance. 

ALFRED.  (  With  a  strange  note  of  seriousness  in 
his  voice)  Some  day,  George,  this  love  of  yours 
will  break  your  heart. 

GEORGE.  (Almost  tragically)  You  say  that  af 
ter  what  you  have  done  to  me.  (Then  again  at  the 
window,  her  voice  low  and  tender)  Look,  Freddo, 
they  are  weeping. 

ALFRED.  (For  a  moment  succumbing  to  her 
mood)  You  will  never  know  what  you  have  meant 
to  me. 

GEORGE.  (Almost  sobbing)  Ah,  my  friend,  do 
not  let  the  sorrow  of  our  parting  break  your  heart. 
Some  day  you  will  forget  me. 

ALFRED.     (Sadly)     If  such  is  fate. 

GEORGE.  (Almost  sternly)  Our  fate  is  what  we 
make  it. 

ALFRED.  (With  a  note  of  bitterness)  Do  you 
remember  that  night  in  Paris  ?  "We  are  but  marion 
ettes,"  you  said. 

GEORGE.  (Her  voice  soft  again)  Pietro — my 
Pietro — 

[109] 


MADAME  SAND  \Aci  77] 

ALFRED.  "Hung  from  the  fingers  of  the  gods." 
Heine  stopped  you  as  he  broke  his  bread. 

GEORGE.  He  eats  too  much.  Besides  Heine  is  a 
German  and  I  mistrust  him. 

ALFRED.    That  is  true  of  all  of  us,  he  echoed. 

GEORGE.  (Again  leaning  out)  Look  at  his  pro 
file  in  the  moonlight.  Worthy  of  Giorgione.  I  shall 
love  him  forever. 

ALFRED.  You  too,  George — even  you — must  jig 
to  this  music  of  fate. 

GEORGE.  (Lyric,  dominant,  speaking  as  a  priest 
ess  with  a  prophecy)  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
fate.  That  is  what  life  has  still  to  teach  you.  Fate 
is  the  death  cry  of  the  coward.  I  at  least  am  mis 
tress  of  my  destiny. 

ALFRED.  (With  a  touch  of  cynicism,  perhaps  of 
anger  in  his  voice)  We  shall  see. 

GEORGE.  (In  glory)  Look!  He  is  coming  back. 
Yes,  we  shall  see. 

(And  she  rushes  over  to  the  door  and 
stands  anxiously  waiting,  and  in  a  moment 
she  is  in  PIETRO'S  arms) 

GEORGE.  Ah!  How  noble  you  were,  my  Pietro, 
and  she, — she  will  forget. 

ALFRED.      (Sotto  voce)     Perhaps. 

GEORGE.  (Sadly  to  ALFRED)  It  is  time  to  say 
farewell.  Once  our  love  was  noble.  May  our  friend 
ship  still  be  beautiful. 

(And  she  gives  him   her   hand.     ALFRED 
bends  over  it) 
[110] 


[Act  II]  MADAME  SAND 

PAGELLO.  (Catching  the  mood)  Alfred,  will 
we, — we  still  be  friends? 

ALFRED.  (Magnificently  rising  to  the  beauty  of 
the  moment)  George, — Pagello, — my  companions, 
my  saviors,  and  my  friends!  (Then  to  PAGELLO) 
You  have  given  life  back  to  me.  (And  then  to 
GEO-RGE)  You  have  taught  me  the  nobility  of  love. 
In  my  silence  read  my  gratitude.  How  shall  we 
seal  our  trinity  of  trust? 

(Their  three  hands  are  almost  touching. 
Suddenly  he  sees  LTJCREZIA'S  stiletto  at  their 
feet.  He  cannot  resist  the  romantic  effect. 
He  takes  it  up) 

ALFRED.     On  this  let  us  pledge  our  faith! 
GEORGE.    Yes !    On  this  symbol  of  death  we  shall 
pledge  our  love  that  shall  survive  the  tomb. 

PAGELLO.  (Not  quite  liking  the  sight  of  LUCRE- 
ZIA'S  stiletto)  No!  No!  Not  on  that!  On  this. 
It  has  never  known  hate ! 

(And  he  tears  out  from  under  his  shirt 
his    mother's    picture.      Their    hands    close 
about  it.  The  light  in  the  night  lamp  flickers. 
GEORGE.     (Solemnly — lyrically)    Forever  friends. 
ALFRED.     (Echoing)     Friends. 
PAGELLO.     (On  the  verge  of  tears)     Friends. 
GEORGE.     And  now  farewell.     Come,  we  shall  see 
the  sun  rise,  Pietro,  and  then  to  Padua. 

(They  are  about  to  move.  Then  PAGELLO 
stops  embarrassed) 

[111] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

PAGELLO.     But — I- — 
GEORGE.     What?     What? 

PAGELLO.  I  have  but  (His  hand  comes  out  of 
his  pocket)  I'm  but  a  poor  practitioner — look,  seven 
lires.  (And  he  holds  them  out)  I  have  a  little 
money  in  my  office  but  most  of  what  I  make  goes 
to  my  mother. 

(GEORGE  rushes  over  to  her  desk  and  flings 
the  drawer  open) 

GEORGE.  (On  the  brink  of  disaster)  Only  yes 
terday  the  bill  was  paid.  There  is  no  money. 

(A  pause.  Imminent  tragedy.  PAGELLO 
t*  in  despair.  GEORGE  for  the  second  time  in 
six  months  is  on  the  verge  of  swooning.  AL 
FRED  sees  his  freedom  tumbling;  but  sud 
denly  he  jumps  into  the  breach  and  to  the 
rescue.  He  rushes  over  and  snatches  from 
under  his  pillow  the  money  that  his  mother 
has  sent  him) 

ALFRED.  Here,  my  friends,  go,  go.  Love  must 
be  obeyed.  Here  are  a  thousand  francs. 

(He  forces  the  money  into  PAGELLO 's 
hand)  , 

GEORGE.  (Gazing  at  him  in  admiring  wonder) 
Alfred !  Alfred !  You  have  redeemed  our  love. 

(And  again  their  three  hands  are  clasped, 
this  time  over  the  money) 

GEORGE.  Come,  love  has  saved  us.  We  will  see 
the  sun  rise  after  all.  And  then  to  Padua.  Al- 


[Act  II]  MADAME  SAND 

fred,  see  Pietro's  papa  and  have  his  things  and  my 
other  trousers  sent  there,  poste  restante. 

(And  she  snatches  her  new  manuscript 
from  her  writing  desk  and  they  are  gone, 
and  the  door  slams  behind  them  and  in  the 
reverberating  echoes  ALFRED  is  heard  laugh 
ing  softly.  Then  he  calls) 
ALFRED.  Paul.  Paul. 

PAUL.     (Rushing  in)    You've  kept  me  waiting. 
ALFRED.      (Significantly)      History   was    in   the 
making. 

PAUL.    And? 

ALFRED.  (Leaning  against  the  bed  post)  They're 
gone. 

PAUL.  If  you  had  only  left  it  to  me  (ALFRED 
laughs)  Aren't  you  laughing  to  hide  something  that 
hurts  ? 

ALFRED.  Hurts!  I  am  healed.  (Gayly)  I 
haven't  felt  better  since  Paris. 

PAUL.     And  what  will  mother  say  to  this? 
ALFRED.     God  bless  her.     She  has  saved  me. 
PAUL.     Mother? 

ALFRED.  Yes.  The  thousand  francs  she  sent  me. 
Her  money  pays  their  way.  She's  bought  me  back. 
(But  the  emotional  strain  has  been  too  much  for 
him.  Then  weakly)  God  help  Pagello.  Who's 
next?  History  will  complete  the  catalogue.  San- 
deau — Merimee — De  Musset — Pa — 

(The  curtain  is  descending  as  he  speaks. 
The    list    is    incompleted,    whilst    from    the 

[113] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  II] 

Canal  the  tenor's  voice  again  singing  of  love 
for  a  little  moment,  lifts  in  poignant  ecstasy 
and  then  dies  away  in  the  stdrlit  stillness  of 
the  night) 


[114] 


ACT  HI 

.  .  .  and  Liszt  plays  on. 


ACT  III 

The  scene  is  a  reception  at  Baron  de  Rothschild's. 
The  room  is  a  typical  drawing-room  of  the  period, 
panelled,  severe,  dignified,  with  a  sense  of  quiet 
spaciousness.  The  furniture  does  not  clutter  the 
stage.  What  there  is  should  be  exquisite  in  design 
and  lend  to  the  general  air  of  distinction.  Down  left 
is  a  fireplace,  and  below  this  is  a  door  with  a  smaller 
drawing-room  beyond.  Down  right  is  the  entrance 
to  the  conservatory.  Towards  the  rear  is  the  en 
trance  from  the  hall  of  the  house  and  to  the  right 
of  this  a  great  door  beyond  which  is  the  music  room. 
If  practical  throughout  the  act,  the  guests  should 
be  seen  coming  and  going,  because,  while  not  abso 
lutely  necessary,  this  will  add  to  the  refinedly  expec 
tant  atmosphere  of  this  soiree  of  tuft-hunters  and 
celebrities.  Later  on  a  charming  effect  could  be 
realized  if  the  people  in  the  picturesque  costumes 
of  the  period  could  be  seen,  rapt  and  ecstatic,  listen 
ing  to  the  playing  of  the  virtuosi.  I  leave  the  pos 
sible  arrangement  of  the  room  beyond  to  the  genius 
of  the  scene  designer.  It  is  not  inevitably  essential 
to  the  action  of  the  play.  The  lighting  is  candle 
light,  low,  soft,  rather  too  little  than  too  glaringly 
distinct.  Throughout  the  act  a  sound  of  admiring 

[117] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

murmurs   and   subdued   applause   should   be   heard 
from  the  music  room. 

The  curtain  lifts  on  three  pretty  chattering  girls, 
quaint,  beruffled,  beribboned.  Two  are  on  a  long 
sofa  and  one  is  opposite  or  vice  versa,  rearranged 
as  best  accords  with  the  charm  of  the  decoration.  It 
is  the  first  great  reception  for  these  three  demoiselles 
and  their  hearts  and  tongues  are  aflutter;  but  now 
the  curtain  is  lifted  and  you  can  see  and  hear  for 
yourself.  They  are  MLLE.  DE  LATOUR,  MLLE.  Ro- 
LANDE  and  MLLE.  DE  FLEUEY. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.    I  think  we  are  too  early. 

MLLE  ROLANDE.  I  am  afraid  I  exasperated 
mamma.  She's  in  the  little  drawing-room.  I 
couldn't  wait  until  we'd  started. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  How  adorable  of  the  Baron 
to  ask  us. 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  It  was  surely  the  idea  of  the 
Baroness. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  What  matter!  We're  here. 
And  as  every  one  is  going  to  be  so  important,  there 
may  as  well  be  a  few  who  are  pretty. 

(And  they  laugh,  Uke  children} 
Do  you  like  my  new  gown? 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  Quite  adorable  but  I  think  I 
like  you  in  gray  better. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.     Nonsense!     (And  she  turns 

to  MLLE.  DE  LATOUR  to  ask  her  opinion,  but  MLLE. 

DE  LATOUR  sits  deep  in  thought)     Elise,  don't  try 

to  hide  your  excitement  by  attempting  to  look  bored. 

[118] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.  I  was  just  wondering  how 
many  pages  of  my  diary  I  would  need  to  write  about 
everything  to-night.  (She  looks  at  a  huge  book  she 
holds  in  her  lap) 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  A  hundred  at  least.  (Then 
with  ill-concealed  excitement)  Do  you  know  who 
is  coming? 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.     De  Musset  and  Heine. 

THE  OTHER  GIRLS.     Yes !     Yes  ! 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.    And  the  great  Franz  Liszt. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.     And  his  rival  Thalberg? 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  I  do  not  think  so.  They  are 
seldom  seen  together. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.     Who  else?     Who  else? 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  Surely  the  Italian,  Pagello. 
I  saw  him  in  the  Palais  Royal  leaning  on  her  arm 
(She  gives  a  quivering  stress  to  the  "her") 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  Is  he  a  blond?  I  think 
blonds  are  so  wonderful. 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  No,  he  is  more  wonderful  than 
any  blond.  He  looks  like  Paris  of  Troy. 

MLLE,  DE  LATOUR.     How  do  you  know  that? 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  Elise,  you  have  the  silliest 
way  of  asking  things. 

(And  again  they  laugh  merrily) 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.     And  Chopin,  imagine,  Chopin ! 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.     Will  he  play? 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  If  the  whim  moves  him.  Of 
course  the  Baroness  would  never  ask  him. 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.     I  don't  see  why  not. 

[119] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  Elise,  you  are  too  absurd. 
How  could  one  have  the  atrocious  taste  to  ask  a 
guest  to  perform?  These  artists  are  not  trained 
monkeys  who  will  run  up  a  stick  when  you  want 
them  to. 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  I  do  not  suppose  we  can  ever 
understand  them.  Ah !  these  artists — they  are  so 
different  from  us  ordinary  mortals. 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.     Yes? 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  They  are  not  moved  by  human 
passions  as  you  and  I. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.    No.    No. 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  Their  life  is  aloof, — removed — 
they  do  not  suffer  as  we  suffer. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.     No.     No. 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.  (Quite  unsentimentally)  I 
do  not  suffer. 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  Wait  till  you  are  a  little  older, 
Elise.  Ah,  have  you  seen  this  Pagello?  I  have 
been  dreaming  of  him  every  night. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  I  would  give  all  the  world 
if  I  could  be  a  great  artist,— a  writer.  There  are 
only  four  things  I  love:  literature,  art,  music  and 
nature.  Ah! — imagine  what  it  would  mean  to  see 
one's  name  in  the  Revue  of  the  great  Buloz. 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.     He's  coming  too. 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.  I  am  more  anxious  to  see  her 
than  any  of  the  others. 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.     (With  awed  voice}     Her! 
[120] 


[Act  1 1 1]  MADAME  SAND 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  (^4*  though  addressing  God) 
Her! 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  She  is  removed  from  earthly 
passions.  She  lives  in  a  sphere  apart. 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.     What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  Elise,  you  ask  as  many  ques 
tions  as  a  hungry  parrot. 

(And  they  all  burst  into  ripples  of  laugh 
ter.  Some  guests  pass  through  the  room  be 
yond) 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  She  is  the  greatest  woman  in 
France. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  (In  astonished  contradiction) 
In  France,  Mathilde?  Why  in  the  whole,  whole 
world. 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  de 
cide  that. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  (To  silence  her  forever)  No? 
Have  you  ever  read  (She  lowers  her  voice) 
"Lelia"? 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.     No. 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  Mamma  forbids  me  to  read  any 
books  of  hers  (Again  the  religious  intonation) 

MLLE.  FLEURY.  So  does  mine  but  my  maid  bought 
"Lelia"  for  me.  I  sat  up  all  night  reading  it  and 
I  v>apt  and  wept  and  wept.  I  never  enjoyed  myself 
so  much. 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.     Because  you  wept? 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  Of  course.  Elise,  you  are  too 
funny. 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

(And  the  two  girls  laugh  together) 
MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.     I  shall  ask  her  to  write  in  my 
album.    I  brought  it  with  me. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  (Springing  to  her  feet  as 
though  shot)  Elise,  my  dear,  you  wouldn't  do 
that !  One  can  see  that  you  went  to  school  in  the 
country.  Why,  I'd  rather  cut  off  my  little  finger 
than  even  dare  speak  to  her. 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.     I  can't  see  why  not. 

(Some  guests  preceded  by  a  lackey  pass 
through  the  room) 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  (Over  at  the  door)  Quick, 
my  dears,  quick,  some  one  has  arrived. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  We  mustn't  miss  anything. 
Who?  Who? 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.  (Laconically)  It  oughtn't 
take  more  than  three  pages  of  my  diary. 

(Some  people  pass  into  the  conservatory 
and  the  three  girls  flutter  after  them.  And 
then  the  door  is  opened  by  a  lackey  and 
BULOZ  enters.  He  is  somewhat  nervous. 
With  him  is  PAGELLO  and  at  their  heels  is 
HEINE) 

BULOZ.  (To  PAGELLO,  pointing  to  the  little 
room  on  the  left)  You  can  wait  in  there,  Doctor, 
if  you  wish  to. 

PAGELLO.  But  I  do  not  understand.  What  has 
happened?  I  was  to  meet  Mme.  Sand  and  she  was 
to  present  me  to  the  Baron. 

BULOZ.     I  don't  think  she  has  arrived  yet.     The 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

moment  she  comes  I  will  send  for  you.  You  will 
excuse  me — I  should  say  us.  I  have  something  im 
portant  to  say  to  Heine. 

PAGELLO.  Of  course.  (He  steps  towards  the 
door) 

BULOZ.  Business,  you  know,  literary  business. 
It's  terrible  being  the  editor  of  a  magazine.  You 
will  find  some  charming  books  on  the  table  in  there. 

HEINE.  Nothing  medical,  Doctor,  I'm  afraid, 
but  perhaps  something  of  Mme.  Sand's. 

(And  BULOZ  almost  pushes  PAGELLO  out 
of  the  room  and  quickly  closes  the  door  be 
hind  him.  Then  he  turns  very  excitedly  to 
HEINE) 

BULOZ.     But,  good  God,  what  are  we  to  do? 

HEINE.  Don't  talk  so  quickly.  Give  me  a  mo 
ment  to  think. 

BULOZ.  In  a  moment  that  girl  will  be  up.  Noth 
ing  will  stop  her.  I  asked  her  to  wait.  I  told  her 
I'd  bring  Pagello  down.  George  will  be  here  any 
second.  She's  dining  with  Liszt.  He's  bringing  her 
here. 

HEINE.  We've  a  moment  then.  That  means 
they'll  talk  late. 

BULOZ.     Yes — 

HEINE.  How  did  you  prevent  Pagello  seeing  this 
Italian  ? 

BULOZ.  Whilst  he  was  leaving  his  cloak  I  man 
aged  to  get  her  into  the  picture  gallery.  It  was 

[123] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

by  the  merest  chance  I  was  at  the  door.  As  soon  as 
she  asked  for  him  I  knew  something  was  wrong. 

HEINE.    Who  is  she? 

BULOZ.  His  mistress.  She  had  a  letter  with  her. 
Some  enemy  of  George  has  sent  the  girl  money  to 
come  from  Venice. 

HEINE.  Our  enemies  are  the  price  we  pay  for 
fame. 

BULOZ.    What  shall  we  do? 

HEINE.  (/*  silent  for  a  moment  in  thought  and 
then)  It  would  be  best  to  wait  until  to-morrow. 

BULOZ.     By  to-morrow  they  may  be  gone. 

HEINE.  She  will  be  able  to  bear  it  better  when  he 
is  no  longer  in  Paris. 

BULOZ.  It  will  break  her  heart  if  she  is  separated 
from  him. 

HEINE.    I  wonder — 

BULOZ.  She  has  never  loved  like  this  before. 
There  is  something  mysterious,  something  hidden 
about  it. 

HEINE.  The  hidden  is  not  always  the  mysterious. 
But  when  you  say  hidden  perhaps  you  are  right. 

BULOZ.  It's  not  as  it  was  with  de  Musset.  It's 
deeper,  more  profound. 

HEINE.     How  do  you  know  that? 

BULOZ.  Because  she  doesn't  find  time  to  write 
me  letters  telling  me  about  her  heart. 

HEINE.  (Slowly)  Perhaps  she's  reading  it  and 
hasn't  time  to  write. 

BULOZ.  (Thinking  it  out)  If  we  don't  tell  her 
[124] 


[Act  III1  MADAME  SAND 

the  girl  has   come  she'll  never  forgive  us   for  not 
warning  her  and  if  we  do  it  may  kill  her. 

HEINE.     Think  of  the  Revue.     Don't  tell  her. 
BULOZ.     I  must. 
HEINE.     Why  ? 

BULOZ.  Because  she's  the  one  woman  in  Paris 
who  would  know  how  to  find  a  way  to  prevent  it. 
What  shall  we  do? 

HEINE.  First  find  our  chessman,  if  we're  to  play 
the  game.  I'll  see  if  George  is  in  the  music  room. 
Keep  Pagello  in  there  until  I  warn  you.  Then  we 
must  get  him  home. 

(And  as  he  goes  into  the  music  room  and 
BTJLOZ  m  to  guard  PAGELLO  some  guests 
cross  the  stage  on  their  way  to  the  conserv 
atory.  As  they  enter  the  chatter  of  voices 
is  heard  and  a  moment  later  a  lackey  opens 
the  door  and  FRANZ  LISZT  comes  in,  and  with 
him  is  GEORGE.  She  is  in  an  elaborate  even 
ing  gown.  Perhaps  it  is  a  little  unusual,  the 
conventional  might  even  say  a  bit  bizarre  but 
nevertheless  she  looks  extraordinarily  hand 
some  and  though  her  soul  is  sad  she  has  made 
the  most  of  the  beautiful  shoulders  which 
HEINE  so  much  admired.  LISZT  is  thin,  pale, 
distinguished,  cesthetic,  but  not  of  the 
exquisite  fragility  of  CHOPIN,  who  is  also  on 
his  way  to  the  reception.  He  is  a  queer  mix 
ture  of  impetuosity  and  method.  A  surpris 
ing  streak  of  practicality  governs  his  pyro- 

[125] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

technic  nature.     GEORGE'S  manner  is  fraught 
with  melancholy  and  deep  intentions) 

LISZT.     These  Parisian  dinners,  George — 

GEORGE.  I'm  telling  you  this,  Franz,  because  you 
know  the  human  heart. 

LISZT.  If  I  do  it  is  because  I  do  not  try  to.  But 
why  haven't  you  told  Buloz? 

GEORGE.     Because  he  wouldn't  understand. 

LISZT.    And  Heine? 

GEORGE.  Because  he  would  understand  too  well. 
It's  you  I  may  need  as  I  did  this  morning.  He  has 
come.  He  wouldn't  stay  at  home. 

LISZT.     Your  Pagello  is  a  fool. 

GEORGE.  Poor  boy,  he  never  wants  to  leave  me. 
He's  afraid  of  being  alone.  He's  insensible. 

LISZT.     Quite !     Quite ! 

GEORGE.  Weeks  ago  it  was  over  and  he  still  stays 
on. 

LISZT.  Seeking  the  oasis  in  the  desert  of  your 
heart. 

GEORGE.  I  can  still  respect  his  simplicity,  but  I 
can  no  longer  love  his  naivete. 

LISZT.    He  needed  his  background  of  lagoons. 

GEORGE.  (Sadly,  reminiscently)  Perhaps,  per 
haps. 

LISZT.  Alas,  "Leila" — how  circumstances  alter 
love. 

GEORGE.  Can  you  expect  me  to  be  untrue  to  my 
soul? 

[126] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

LISZT.  (Subtly)  If  you  mean  by  that  your  in 
stincts — no,  never! 

GEORGE.  I  was  blind.  What  I  thought  was  his 
purity  I  have  found  to  be  his  emptiness. 

LISZT.  Lelia,  I  too  have  learned  from  life  that 
nothing  is  so  unlovely  as  the  thing  one  used  to  love. 
Some  day  I  shall  write,  shall  I  call  it  a  symphonic 
poem  with  that  idea  for  theme?  Three  movements, 
hope, — love — disillusion.  Disillusion  in  the  violins 
struggling  against  love  in  the  wood-winds.  Write 
the  program  for  me,  Lelia. 

GEORGE.  (Disregarding  the  digression)  He  has 
cost  me  dearly. 

LISZT.     Yes,  spending  emotion  leaves  one  poor. 

GEORGE.  I  have  ceased  to  love  him  and  (With  a 
tone  like  a  funeral  knell)  ceasing  to  love  him  I  have 
ceased  to  love  forever. 

LISZT.  When  one  says  forever  one  is  apt  to  for 
get  to-morrow.  Something  must  be  done.  He  can't 
spend  the  rest  of  his  life  going  from  hospital  to 
hospital  studying  these  diseases.  It  isn't  healthy. 

GEORGE.    No,  you  are  right. 

LISZT.  Heine  hasn't  decided  which  is  dearer  to 
Pagello,  you  or  these  gall-stones. 

GEORGE.    Do  not  speak  unkindly  of  him,  Franz. 

LISZT.  Why,  all  you  had  to  do  was  to  look  at  his 
perfect  profile  to  realize  his  limitations. 

GEORGE.  That  is  the  way  a  man  reasons.  A 
woman  only  feels  and  knows  she  is  right. 

LISZT.     And  when  the  feelings  change? 

[127] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

GEORGE.     (Sadly)     Life  is  calling  us  to  school. 

LISZT.  Paris  has  soon  wearied  of  this  moony 
medico. 

GEORGE.  He  was  once  dear  to  me.  (And  then 
almost  tenderly)  He  still  imagines  that  he  loves 
me. 

LISZT.  Poor  Pagello !  Why,  any  man  knows  that 
love  is  over  the  day  the  woman  begins  telling  herself 
that  it  will  last  forever. 

GEORGE.  (Very  melancholy,  thinking  perhaps 
more  of  herself  than  Pagello)  Yes,  yes. 

LISZT.     And  when  will  this  be  over? 

GEORGE.  (Quite  simply)  If  things  happen  as  I 
plan,  to-night. 

LISZT.     And  how? 

GEORGE.  (As  though  she  might  be  saying  "good 
morning")  I  am  sending  him  back  to  Venice. 

(And  LISZT   looks    up   barely   concealing 
his  astonishment) 

LISZT.     What  ? 

GEORGE.  (In  explanation)  It  breaks  my  heart 
to  see  the  poor  boy  suffer. 

LISZT.  (With  a  smile)  So,  so, — and  that  is  why 
you're  out  of  mourning. 

GEORGE.     (In  the  dark)    Mourning? 

LISZT.  Yes,  this  is  the  first  time  since  Italy  that 
Paris  has  seen  your  shoulders.  And  how  does  Lelia 
manage  this  with  Pietro? 

GEORGE.     He  will  leave  to-night  for  Lyons. 

LISZT.      (Smiling  ever  so  little)     Poor  Pagello! 
[128] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

Poor  poodle!     He  entered  Paris  a  triumphant  cap 
tive  of  love  and  now  he  goes  back  alone. 

GEORGE.  No,  not  alone.  A  month  ago  a  letter 
arrived  from  Castelfranco  and  with  that  letter  my 
salvation. 

LISZT.     Salvation  by  post? 

GEORGE.     (Oblivious)     Yes,  yes. 

LISZT.  Why  not,  salvation  is  such  a  little  thing. 
Just  what  one  wants  at  the  moment. 

GEORGE.  (Continuing)  Suddenly  everything  was 
clear  to  me.  I  got  money  from  Buloz  on  my  new 
book.  Pagello  is  the  hero.  (And  then  quite  uncon 
scious  of  the  subtle  truth  she  is  speaking)  The 
book  is  almost  finished. 

LISZT.     So  is  Pagello. 

GEORGE.  Of  this  money  I  sent  her  enough  to 
come  to  Paris. 

LISZT.    Ah !    His  mother? 

GEORGE.  No  !  No  !  I  am  done  with  fathers  and 
with  mothers. 

LISZT.  If  not  his  mother,  then — (He  looks  at  her 
questioningly) 

GEORGE.  Yes,  you  are  right.  His  mistress.  The 
letter  came  as  from  any  anonymous  sympathetic 
friend  of  Pietro's  here  in  Paris. 

LISZT.     (In  admiration)     So? 

GEORGE.  Ah,  I  can  tell  you,  Franz,  that  friend 
did  not  spare  George  Sand. 

LISZT.  Then  his  mistress  is  the  woman  I  met  at 
the  coach  this  morning? 

[129] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

GEORGE.    Yes,  she  will  follow  him  here. 

LISZT.     Here? 

GEORGE.  I  came  to-night  because  my  soul  needed 
the  consolation  of  the  music.  As  I  tell  you,  he  would 
not  stay  at  home;  but  I  left  word  where  he  was 
going. 

LISZT.  Swift  as  my  technic,  Lelia.  You  act  as 
quickly  as  I  play  my  scales.  (And  he  runs  his  fin 
gers  through  the  air) 

GEORGE.  If  I  know  her,  and  I  think  I  do,  she  will 
come  to-night  and  fetch  him.  I  cannot  stand  the 
strain  a  moment  longer.  It  must  end  at  once.  I 
am  saving  him,  Franz.  His  sadness  breaks  my 
heart. 

LISZT.  Alas,  we  poor  men  are  but  threads  be 
tween  the  shears.  (And  he  makes  a  snapping  little 
movement  as  though  cutting  the  thread  in  two.  Then 
suddenly)  Ah!  That  would  make  a  splendid  finger 
exercise.  (And  he  begins  trying  it  over  and  over) 
Do  you  know  that  Chopin  is  going  to  play  to-night? 

GEORGE.  (Looking  up)  Why  has  he  refused  to 
meet  me? 

LISZT.  Because  being  an  artist  he  has  little  time 
for  art.  Besides  I  don't  think  he  likes  you.  He's 
very  shy. 

GEORGE.  (As  though  trying  to  explain  it  to  her 
self)  There  is  something  in  his  music  as  of  desire, 
chained. 

LISZT.     He  is  the  greatest   artist  in  the  world, 
save  one. 
[130] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

GEORGE.     Thalberg? 

LISZT.  (Angrily)  No,  no,  one  Liszt.  Franz 
Liszt.  If  the  women  keep  away  long  enough  to 
allow  him  to  practice  the  world  will  hear  of  him. 

GEORGE.  And  what  of  Chopin?  Do  the  women 
bother  him?  These  Poles  are  so  romantic. 

LISZT.  Poor  Frederick,  he  has  just  recovered. 
He  and  the  Wodzinska.  They  loved  as  children  and 
because  she  was  a  woman  she  has  married  some  one 
else.  It  nearly  broke  his  heart. 

GEORGE.  (Dee ply)  Life  is  cruel  and  the  most 
sensitive  to  beauty  are  those  who  suffer  most.  The 
other  night  at  de  Custines  when  he  was  playing  it 
was  as  though  a  soul  were  singing — seeking. 

(And  at  this  moment  the  three  girls  appear 
in  the  doorway  whispering  together  and  try 
ing  not  to  seem  too  rudely  interested  in  the 
celebrities  ) 

GEORGE.  Ah,  we  are  early,  Franz.  But  it  is  just 
as  well.  I  shall  come  back  here  and  sit  alone  to 
listen  to  the  music.  Sorrow  is  but  unwelcome  com 
pany.  (And  she  sighs  deeply  as  she  glances  at  the 
three  girls)  Come,  Franz,  where  is  the  Baron? 
I  must  say  good  evening. 

LISZT.    They  are  receiving  in  the  conservatory. 
GEORGE.    Come. 

(And  she  goes  into  the  conservatory,  fol 
lowed  by  LISZT) 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.     That  was  she. 
MI/LE.  DE  FLEURY.     (Breathless)    Yes,  yes  ! 

[131] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.     Was  that  Pagello? 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.     Nonsense,  that  was  Chopin. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  No,  my  dear,  I'm  sure  it  was 
de  Musset.  Chopin  is  taller. 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  Did  you  notice  how  she  glanced 
at  us?  Let  us  follow  them. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.    Do  you  think  we  ought? 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.     Why  not? 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  We  can  stay  at  the  other  side 
of  the  room  and  seem  not  to  be  watching  them. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  Isn't  it  all  just  wonderful? 
Did  you  like  her  dress? 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  That  certainly  was  last  year's 
bodice. 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.    Let's  go  after  them. 

THE  OTHER  GIRLS.     Yes !    Yes ! 

(And  they  follow  GEORGE  and  LISZT  into 
the  conservatory  as  HEINE  comes  in  from 
the  music  room.  He  goes  over  to  the  door 
of  the  little  drawing-room  and  calls  BULOZ) 

BULOZ.     (Entering)     Well? 

HEINE.  She's  come.  They  are  in  the  conserv 
atory.  Only  a  few  are  ahead  of  them.  They'll  be 
back  in  a  second. 

BULOZ.  They  mustn't  see  each  other.  God  knows 
what'll  happen  to  George  if  that  woman  takes  Pa 
gello  away  from  her.  She  mustn't  break  down  for 
my  sake. 

HEINE.     Your  sake? 

BULOZ.     She's  promised  me  three  chapters  before 
[132] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

morning.     We  go  to  press  at  ten.     Did  you  see  how 
that  Italian  woman  looked? 

HEINE.     Silent  as  a  pool  before  the  storm. 
BULOZ.    If  it  were  the  old  George  she'd  meet  her 
match. 

HEINE.     George  is  unmatchable. 
BITLOZ.     (At  his  wit's  end)    Well,  what  will  come 
of  it? 

HEINE.     I  can  hear  Olympus  rumbling  with  al 
mighty  laughter. 

(And  indeed  at   this   moment   there  is   a 
sound  of  voices  from  the  hall) 
BULOZ.     Chopin  has  arrived.     Hear  them  buzz. 
HEINE.      (Mischievously,   with  a  sort   of  impish 
prophecy)     The  toy  box  is  too  crowded.     Some  of 
the  dolls  will  be  broken.    Pagello — George — this  girl 
— and  Chopin  come  in  the  nick  of  time,  perhaps,  to 
play  an  obligate  to  their  parting.   (He  begins  laugh 
ing  quietly  to  himself)     The  gods  are  busy  at  the 
strings.     Come,  Buloz,  let  us  dance,  dance! 

(And  at  this  moment  from  one  side  of 
the  stage  enters  CHOPIN  escorted  by  a  lackey 
and  from  the  conservatory  opposite  comes 
GEORGE  followed  by  LISZT.  And  as  they 
come  forward  GEORGE  and  FREDERICK  stop 
and  look  at  each  other  even  as  Tristan  and 
Isolde  and  as  all  other  mortals  who  are 
doomed  to  love  have  looked  since  the  begin 
ning  of  time  when  Adam — or  was  it  Eve — 
looked  and  thus  began  the  trouble) 

[133] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

LISZT.  (Rushing  forward  to  CHOPIN)  Frederick! 
(And  CHOPIN  speaks.  He  is  fragile,  ex 
quisite,  spiritual.  There  is  something  about 
him  as  of  flame  and  sleep.  He  is  simple  and 
profound,  childlike  and  dominant,  his  whims 
are  emotional  necessities.  He  is  part  reticent 
reserve  and  part  sudden  irritability.  Withal 
he  is  a  genius  who  m  the  words  of  Balzac 
was  less  a  musician  than  a  soul  which  makes 
itself  audible) 

CHOPIN.  Good  evening,  Franz.  Ah,  Heine, — 
Buloz — 

HEINE.  (With  elaborate  and  fantastic  ceremony) 
May  it  be  my  privilege  to  present  the  matchless 
composer  of  the  B  Minor  Scherzo  to  the  peerless 
creator  of  the  immortal  Lelia. 

(And  GEORGE  gives  CHOPIN  her  hand  and 
he  bends  over  to  press  it  to  his  lips) 
CHOPIN.     (Kissing  her  fingers)    Madame. 
GEORGE.     (As  their  eyes  meet  as  he  straightens 
up}     You  have  suffered,  that  is  why  you  can  sing. 
You  must  come  some  time  with  Franz  to  see  me. 
CHOPIN.     Madame. 

(He  again  bows  and  she  turns  to  HEINE) 
LISZT.     (To  CHOPIN)     Shall  I  present  you  to  the 
Baron  ? 

(And  as  LISZT  and  CHOPIN  cross  to  the 
right  of  the  stage  HEINE  and  GEORGE  cross 
to  the  left) 
[134] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

LISZT.     (Low  to  CHOPIN)     What  do  you  think  of 
her? 

CHOPIN.     (Low  to  LISZT)     Her  eyes  are  too  large 
but  she  is  less  impossible  than  I  thought. 

HEINE.    (Low  to  GEORGE)    What  do  you  think  of 
him? 

GEORGE.     (Low  to  HEINE)     His  chin  is  weak  but 
he  is  more  of  a  man  than  I  had  imagined. 

(And  at  this  moment  the  three  girls  ap 
pear,    still   hunting    the   celebrities,    and   as 
CHOPIN  and  LISZT  go  in  to  the  conservatory 
LISZT  stops  to  chat  with  them  and  then  he 
and  the  adoring  girls  exit  to  follow  CHOPIN) 
GEORGE.      (Sitting    down)      Chopin     alone     can 
make  this  party  bearable.     The  Baron  is  a  charming 
gentleman,  but  his  guests  are  too  wealthy  to  be  any 
thing  but  stupid. 

BULOZ.     (Aside  to  Heine)     What  shall  I  do? 
HEINE.     Tell  her  now. 

BULOZ.      (Coming     forward — nervously)      Good 
evening,  George. 

GEORGE.     Ah,  Buloz.     Now  I  know  what  you're 
going  to  say. 

(BULOZ  starts) 

HEINE.     Not  this  time,  George. 

GEORGE.     Heine,  please  don't  begin  quoting  Faust 

:n  that  horrid  guttural  German,  and  you,  Buloz, 

don't  jump  at  my  throat  and  shriek  for  those  last 

two  chapters.     YV>u  shall  have  them  by  to-morrow. 

[135] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

HEINE.      (Trying    to    lead    up)      Perhaps    you 
mayn't  write  to-night,  George. 

GEORGE.    Nothing  but  death  can  stop  me. 
BULOZ.      (Desperately)     Why    should    we    beat 
about  the  bush? 

GEORGE.     (Lightly)     Why  not?    That's  one  way 
of  stirring  the  birds  to  sing. 

HEINE.    To  sing?    First  they  may  fly  away. 
GEORGE.     Questing  the  eternal  fires  of  the  dawn. 
Ah,  that's  a  fine  phrase. 

(And  she  takes  a  tiny  pencil  from  a  little 
bag  hanging  at  her  waist  and  jots  down  the 
words  on  one  of  the  panels  of  her  fan) 
BULOZ.      (Guardedly,  darkly,  attempting  to   be 
gin)     George,  I  believe  in  you. 

GEORGE.     (Lightly)     Of  course  you  do.     Don't 
you  print  me? 

BULOZ.     (Lugubriously)     George — 
GEORGE.    You  sound  as  if  you  were  reciting  Cor- 
neille. 

(He  hesitates  and  looks  across  the  room 
for  help  from  HEINE,  but  HEINE  is  deep  m  a 
book  he  has  lifted  from  the  table) 
BULOZ.     (Clearing  his  throat  and  attempting  to 
go  on)     You  are  strong,  you  can  control — 

(Embarrassed  he  stops  short) 
GEORGE.    Are  you  writing  my  obituary  ? 
BULOZ.    Be  brave.     Remember  you  have  children. 
(And  GEORGE  springs  up  and  for  a  sec- 
[136] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

ond  goes  white  and  leans  half  fainting  against 
her  chair) 

GEORGE.  My  God !  My  children !  Maurice,  So- 
lange.  Have  they  fever?  Are  they  dead? 

BULOZ.  No,  George,  it  is  not  your  children, 
but— 

(And  the  next  second  the  light  breaks  in 
GEORGE'S  face  and  she  can  hardly  suppress 
an  exclamation  of  long  hoped  for  relief.  And 
all  the  while  HEINE  stands  scrutinizing  her) 
GEORGE.    What  is  it?    Tell  me.     Tell  me. 
BULOZ.     (Speaking  very  slowly.     He  is  doing  his 
stumbling  best  to  keep  from  hurting  her  too  sud 
denly)     Remember,  France,  the  world,  has  need  of 
you. 

GEORGE.    Is  it  all  preface?    Begin — Begin. 
BULOZ.     (He  stops  and  wipes  his  monocle)  Well — 
GEORGE.    Yes. 

BULOZ.  (Carefully,  with  deep  pity  for  her, 
watching  the  effect)  Pagello's  mistress  has  come 
from  Italy. 

(And  to  his  amazement  she  takes  the  news 
quite  calmly.     Indeed  in  a  way  that  puzzles 
him.    But  HEINE'S  eyes  never  leave  her  face) 
GEORGE.    Lucrezia? 

BULOZ.     She  is  waiting  in  the  hall  for  him. 
GEORGE.     (Solemnly,  as  though  she  felt  HEINE'S 
eyes)     It  is  the  hand  of  heaven.     Fate  doesn't  mean 
that  I  should  keep  him  from  her  any  longer. 

(And  a  sound  of  voices  is  heard  beyond  in 

[137] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

the  hall — A  lackey's  and  a  woman's  voice  in 
remonstrance  and  the  door  is  thrown  open 
and  LUCREZIA  ruslies  in) 

LUCREZIA.  He  is  here,  I  tell  you.  I  will  wait  no 
longer.  (Then  she  sees  GEORGE)  You!  You! 
Where  are  your  breeches? 

BULOZ.  Not  so  loud,  Madame.  The  greatest  pian 
ist  in  the  world  is  about  to  improvise  in  the  music 
room. 

HEINE.  Whilst  fate  is  improvising  here.  (And 
then  almost  inaudibly)  Fate — or  George. 

LUCREZIA.  (Threateningly  to  GEORGE)  Once  be 
fore  you  drove  him  dumb  with  your  words.  This 
time  I  shall  speak. 

GEORGE.  (Quite  unfltistered)  Yes,  apparently, 
apparently.  And  how  is  Venice?  Do  tame  nightin 
gales  still  sing  on  every  balcony  and  are  there  still 
fresh  oysters  on  every  doorstep? 

LUCREZIA.  (Pointing  to  the  letter  in  her  hand) 
I  know  all,  all. 

HEINE.  Rivalling  the  Omnipotent.  Does  she 
mean  George  or  God? 

LUCREZIA.    Madonna,  what  have  you  done  to  him? 

GEORGE.  What  have  I  done  to  him?  Perhaps 
the  greatest  thing  any  woman  can  do  for  any  man. 
I  have  given  him  his  soul. 

LUCREZIA.  It  is  all  written  here.  (And  she  waves 
her  letter  in  GEORGE'S  face)  This  friend  of  Pietro's 
knows  the  lies  your  heart  hides  and  has  told  me  all. 
[138] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

Caro  mio  Pietro.     (And  to  stifle  back  her  tears  her 
voice  goes  louder)     Pietro ! 

(And  the  door  of  the  little  drawing-room 
opens  and  PAGELLO  enters,  an  open  book  in 
his  hand) 

PAGEI/LO.  (On  the  threshold,  not  seeing  LUCRE- 
ZIA)  Did  some  one  call  me? 

HEINE.  Yes,  Doctor,  a  voice  from  beyond  the 
Alps. 

PAGELLO.  I  do  not  understand  this  poetical  way 
you  have  of  saying  things.  Ah,  George,  good  even 
ing. 

GEORGE.      (A    bit    mournfully    but    nevertheless 
leading  in  the  right  direction)     "Good  evening"? — 
No,  my  friend,  not  good  evening  but  alas,  good-bye. 
PAGELLO.     (As  usual  a  bit  mystified)     What? 
GEORGE.     (Unable  to  resist  the  cadence)     Good 
bye — forever. 

(And  in  a  second  all  is  clear  because  as 
he  looks  up  for  an  explanation  he  sees  Lu- 
CREZIA  and  he  stumbles  back  against  the  sofa 
and  the  book  falls  from  his  hand) 
PAGEI/LO.      San      Giovanni, — San      Pietro, — San 
Paolo, — San  Luichele — 

HEINE.  (Low  to  BULOZ)  This  is  a  splendid 
chance  to  learn  the  Italian  calendar. 

BULOZ.  (His  eyes  on  GEORGE)  Will  she  be 
strong  enough  to  bear  it? 

PAGELLO.  Santa  Maria,  you — you —  Where  have 
you  come  from? 

[139] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

GEORGE.    From  Italy,  Pietro,  moonlit  Italy. 

(And  in   the  next   room  CHOPIN   can   be 
heard  improvising} 

GEORGE.  Ah,  Madame,  life  has  taught  me  much. 
I  have  wronged  you,  wronged  you  deeply. 

LUCREZIA.  (To  PAGEI/LO)  Come  away,  she  is 
beginning  to  talk. 

PAGELLO.  (Hardly  recovered  from  the  shock) 
How  did  you  get  here,  Lucrezia? 

LUCREZIA.  You  have  a  friend  in  Paris,  Pietro- 
ninni.  One  who  hates  this  George  Sand.  (And  she 
again  pomts  to  the  letter) 

GEORGE.  Madame,  alas,  there  are  many  such. 
The  rich  because  I  would  enrich  the  poor,  the  wise 
because  I  pity  fools. 

BULOZ.     (Aside  to  HEINE).     She  is  magnificent. 

HEINE.     Yes,  perhaps  more  so  than  you  think. 

GEORGE.  In  Venice,  Madame,  I  wronged  you.  In 
Paris  I  ask  your  pardon.  (She  steps  toward  LUCRE 
ZIA  but  the  girl,  protecting  PAGELLO,  backs  into  a 
corner)  Ah,  Madame,  do  not  shrink  from  me. 
Love  has  taught  me  humility.  Though  it  breaks 
my  heart  I  give  him  back  to  you. 

LUCREZIA.  (Shrieking)  You  do  not  give  him. 
He  comes.  He  comes. 

(And  at  this  moment  LISZT'S  head  pops  in 
at  the  door) 

LISZT.    Shhh !  my  dears !    If  you  are  playing  cha 
rades   be   a  little   quieter.      You're   disturbing   the 
music  Chopin  is  improvising.     (And  then  he  lowers 
[140] 


[Act  III}  MADAME  SAND 

his  voice  to  a  whisper  and  hushes  them  with  his 
lifted  finger)  Piano!  Piano!  (Then  he  sees  Lu- 
CREZIA  and  begins  thoughtlessly  to  bubble  over)  Ah 
— so,  George, — she — you — 

(But  GEORGE  is  ready  and  suddenly  she 
turns  to  him  and  speaks  as  though  nothing 
but  the  answer  to  her  question  mattered) 
GEORGE.     Isn't  that  Thalberg  playing?     It's  like 
his  touch. 

LISZT.  (Swiftly,  almost  angrily)  No,  no.  Cho 
pin.  Only  Chopin  can  play  like  that.  Listen,  ah, 
that  phrasing — such  delicacy,  such  nuance.  Listen 
that  modulation. 

GEORGE.  And  can  you  modulate  so  beautifully, 
my  friend? 

(And  the  message  has  registered  not  un 
seen  by  HEINE) 

LISZT.  (His  whole  manner  changing  looking  at 
LUCREZIA)  What  a  beautiful  girl!  Is  she  an  artist 
come  to  dance  the  Tarantula? 

HEINE.  No,  she  is  an  avenging  fury  whose  wings 
are  clipped. 

GEORGE.  (Peering  through  him)  That  is  very 
cryptic,  Heine. 

HEINE.  (Smiling  back)  Perhaps,  George,  but 
not  too  deep  for  you  to  read. 

(There  is  a  pause.  CHOPIN  has  reached 
a  brilliant  passage  and  instinctively  they  att 
stop  to  listen) 

[141] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

LISZT.  Ah !  Beauty  made  audible.  Singing  star- 
light. 

LUCREZIA.     (In  utter  disgust)     Monkey! 

LISZT.  Ah!  (His  hand  lifted  in  ecstatic  admira 
tion)  The  moment's  inspiration — 

GEORGE.  (As  the  music  swells  and  dies)  The 
heritage  of  all  the  years. 

(And  LISZT,  softly  closing  the  door  behind 
him,  goes  back  into  the  music  room) 

LUCREZIA.  (To  PAGELLO)  Come  away,  Pietro, 
these  people  are  all  crazy.  They  rattle  in  their 
heads. 

PAGELLO.  (At  a  loss.  It  is  aU  too  much  for 
him)  George — 

GEORGE.  Go,  Pietro,  I  shall  be  brave.  My  bless 
ings  follow  you,  my  friend.  Life  must  be  answered 
— youth  be  heard.  She  is  Sarah  come  from  the 
South  to  call  you.  I  am  as  Hagar  cast  without. 
But  in  the  wilderness  I  shall  find  my  peace.  My 
little  Ishmaels  are  calling  me. 

HEINE.  She's  a  little  mixed,  but  what  difference 
does  it  make — they're  Italians. 

GEORGE.     Under  the  trees  at  Nohant  I  shall  find 
forgetfulness  and  rest.     Do  not  forget  me,  Pietro. 
(And  she  bends  over  to  kiss  him  a  last 
farewell) 

LUCREZIA.  (In  a  corner,  her  hands  twitching) 
Madonna  mia.  She's  a  witch. 

GEORGE.     No,  no,  Pietro.     (Thru  habit  and  not 
knowing  what  to  do  he  is  about  to  kiss  her  on  the 
[142] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

lips)  No,  no,  not  on  the  lips — the  brow,  my  friend, 
the  brow,  as  you  would  kiss  a  sister.  (And  thus 
nobly  and  sadly  they  embrace}  Good-bye,  my 
brother. 

(And  then  LUCREZIA  is  over  next  to  him, 
her  arms  thru  his  and  they  are  moving  to 
wards  the  door) 

PAGEI/LO.  (Suddenly  stopping)  But —  (And  in 
stinctively  his  hand  goes  to  his  pocket)  I — I  (And 
at  a  loss  just  how  to  put  it)  I  am  but  a  poor  prac 
titioner. 

GEORGE.  (Thoughtfully)  Pietro,  it  seems  to  me 
I've  heard  you  say  that  same  thing  once  before. 

(There  is  an  embarrassed  pause  but  in  an 
instant  she  is  ready) 

GEORGE.  Of  course,  of  course.  Buloz,  advance 
me  a  thousand  francs.  They  may  need  it.  You 
shall  have  two  books  for  it  instead  of  one.  The  writ 
ing  will  help  me  to  forget.  Go  with  them,  remem 
ber  they  are  strangers  in  this  whirling  world  of 
Paris. 

HEINE.  (With  significance)  Strange  as  two 
babies  at  a  ball. 

(And  as  PAGELLO  comes  over  tenderly  to 
shake  her  hand  in  gratitude,  LUCREZIA  keeps 
hold  of  his  other  hand  with  a  sort  of  instinc 
tive  feeling  that  he  won't  be  safe  until  out 
of  sight  of  GEORGE) 

HEINE.  (Aside  to  BULOZ)  Michael  Angelo  alone 
could  do  justice  to  that  group. 

[143] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

GEORGE.  Come,  Buloz,  see  these  two  children  on 
their  way.  You  remember  the  coach  for  Lyons 
leaves  the  Post  Hotel  at  nine. 

(Arid  she  is  over  at  the  door  with  PAGELLO 
and  LUCREZIA) 

HEINE.     (Sotto  voce  to  BULOZ  a*  he  moves  to 
wards  them)     It  was  on  this  very  coach  that  she 
started  with  de  Musset. 
BULOZ.     Well,  what  of  it? 

HEINE.  If  this  sort  of  thing  goes  on  the  people 
of  the  diligence  should  make  her  an  allowance. 

GEORGE.    Good-bye,  my  brother.     (And  then  even 
more  beautifully)     Good-bye,  my  new-found  sister. 
(And  at  this  moment  the  CHOPIN  improvi 
sation  is  over  and  a  burst  of  applause  sounds 
from  the  next  room) 

GEORGE.     (Unperturbed)     Love  will  protect  you. 
(And  she  stretches  out  her  hand  to  PIETRO 
and  he  bends  over  and  kisses  it.    And  she  of 
fers  her  hand  to  LUCREZIA  but  the  girl  re 
fuses  it  and  suddenly  turns  and  faces  her) 
LUCREZIA.     (Att  the  passion  in  her  spitting  over) 
Corpo  di  Cristo,  I  will  not  take  your  hand.     I  am 
an  Italian  and  I  do  not  forget.     Dio!     And  I  do 
not  forgive.     What  you  have  stolen  I  have  taken 
back.     Maladetta!     What  you  have  taught  him  I 
shall  profit  by. 

(And  half  dragging,  half  embracing  her  re 
captured  Doctor,  they  are  gone  and  BULOZ 
with.   them.     GEORGE  for  a  moment   stands 
[144] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

looking  after  them  a  sad  little  smile  in  her 
eyes.     Then  she  turns  to  HEINE) 

GEORGE.  Ah,  Heine,  youth  is  the  one  thing  worth 
having  longest.  She  is  glorious.  Mark  my  words, 
my  friend,  the  world  shall  yet  be  saved  by  women. 

HEINE.  Then  as  their  first  priestess  let  me  ten 
der  you  my  homage.  (And  he  gallantly  Jcisses  her 
hand)  If  you  ever  cease  writing,  George,  go  on 
the  stage.  Melpomene  herself  could  not  have  played 
it  better. 

GEORGE.     Yes — I  wrote  that  letter,  Heine. 

HEINE.     Ah,  my  prophetic  soul. 

GEORGE.  Poor  Pietro  could  never  have  managed 
it  alone. 

HEINE.  (Seriously}  George,  I  have  ever  loved 
you. 

GEORGE.  (Lightly)  Too  late,  too  late,  my  Ger 
man.  My  soul  is  turning  gray. 

HEINE.  That  is  why  my  admiration  for  you 
means  the  more.  Tell  them  to  carve  upon  your 
tombstone:  "Here  lies  George  the  indefatigable." 

GEORGE.  That  doesn't  interest  me.  I  won't  be 
there  to  read  it. 

HEINE.     You'll  probably  outlive  us  all. 

GEORGE.  No,  Heine,  you  are  wrong.  (And  then 
as  irrefutable  proof)  Pve  just  had  my  old  mat 
tresses  recovered  and  I  regret  it.  It  wasn't  worth 
while  for  the  little  time  I  still  contemplate  living. 
I  am  going  to  an  island  in  the  Mediterranean  to  die. 
Wait  and  see,  time  will  tell. 

[145] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

HEINE.  Time  tells  nothing.  Leave  it  to  your 
biographers. 

GEORGE.  (Though  a  minute  ago  life  was  over) 
What!  Never!  I'll  forestall  their  lies  and  some 
day,  like  Rousseau,  I'll  confess  in  twenty  volumes. 
(Then  sadly)  My  heart  is  a  graveyard. 

HEINE.     Don't  you  mean  a  cemetery,  George? 

(And  at  this  moment  a  lackey  opens  the 
door  from  the  hall  and  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET 
enters,  his  mother  leaning  on  his  arm.     It  is 
their  first  meeting  since  Italy) 
MME.  DE  MUSSET.     (Stepping  forward  and  cor 
dially  taking  GEORGE'S  hand)     Alfred  has  told  me 
all.     (And  GEORGE  is  as  near  hysterical  surprise  as 
she  has  ever  come  in  her  life) 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  A  mother's  thanks  for  all  that 
you  have  done  for  him.  Yes,  I  know  how  patiently 
you  nursed  him  thru  his  sunstroke  and  sat  at  his 
bedside  bathing  his  brow  and  giving  him  his  milk. 

GEORGE.  (Equal  even  to  this)  I  promised  you 
that  I  would  care  for  him. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  And  you  have,  you  have.  A 
mother's  gratitude  goes  out  to  you. 

(And  in  her  enthusiasm  she  bends  over  and 
kisses  GEORGE,  and  HEINE,  who  has  been 
watching  ALFRED — who  stands  like  a  monu 
ment  trying  to  solve  a  riddle — comes  to  the 
rescue) 

HEINE.  (Bowing  to  MME.  DE  MUSSET)  May  I 
have  the  honor  of  escorting  you  to  the  Baron? 

[146] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (Taking  his  arm}  We  are 
very  late. 

(Agam  the  piano  sounds  from  the  music 
room) 

GEORGE.  (A  little  more  enthusiastically  than  she 
realizes)  Ah,  that  is  Chopin.  Liszt  is  to  play  later 
in  the  evening. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.     Are  you  coming  in,  Madame? 

GEORGE.  No,  I  shall  sit  here  alone  to  listen.  I 
am  not  well,  Madame.  I  do  not  like  the  crowd. 

MME.  DE  MUSSET.  (As  she  reaches  the  door)  I 
shall  see  you  later  then,  at  supper? 

HEINE.     At  supper, — of  course. 

GEORGE.  If  I  stay,  but  alas,  Madame,  I  am  so 
spent.  (And  she  heaves  a  deep  sigh)  I  do  not  know 
what  will  happen  to  me. 

(As  indeed  she  doesn't.     And  GEORGE  and 
ALFRED  are  left  alone) 

GEORGE.  (Sadly)  That  was  kind  of  Heine.  I 
wanted  to  see  you,  Alfred,  once  before  I  left  Paris. 
I'm  very  tired. 

ALFRED.  You're  overworking.  You  should  break 
with  Buloz.  He  expects  too  much  of  you. 

GEORGE.  No,  it  isn't  that.  (And  then  slowly) 
I  have  just  sent  Pietro  back  to  Venice. 

ALFRED.     (As  the  memories  stir)     Ah — 

GEORGE.     All  is  over.     It  is  the  end, — the  end. 

ALFRED.  Go  down  to  the  country,  you  will  rest 
there  out  in  the  open.  It  is  quiet  under  the  trees. 

[147] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

GEORGE.  (Wearily)  It  is  a  quiet  deeper  than 
the  silence  of  Nohant  that  I  seek. 

ALFRED.     You  mean — 

GEORGE.  Yes,  my  friend.  I  welcome  it  as  a  long 
rest  after  a  too  long  journey.  I  can  no  longer  live 
with  dignity. 

ALFRED.  You've  been  like  this  before.  Why,  by 
to-morrow — 

GEORGE.  No.  No.  That  was  long  ago.  (A 
nocturne  of  exquisite  melancholy  sounds  from  the 
music  room)  To-morrow  bears  but  the  same  sad 
burden  as  to-day.  I  shall  miss  only  the  sound  of 
my  children's  voices.  Solange  is  so  sweet — you 
should  see  her,  Alfred.  I  can  hardly  keep  from 
weeping  when  I  kiss  her.  I  shall  miss  my  children 
and  the  feel  of  the  wind  in  my  face.  I  adore  the 
wind.  It  is  the  symbol  of  perpetual  energy. 

ALFRED.  Blowing  nowhere  and  forever — but  such 
is  life. 

GEORGE.  (Sadly.  It  is  her  tragic  moment)  And 
such  is  love.  We  are  like  leaves  tossed  in  the  wind 
of  desire.  Do  you  remember  that  night  in  Venice 
in  the  window?  I  laughed  at  you  and  your  fear  of 
fate.  But  you  were  right,  Alfred.  Destiny  has 
piped  and  I  have  danced — and  now  I'm  tired. 

ALFRED.     And  love? 

GEORGE.  (And  from  her  heart  comes  a  cry  of  bit 
terness)  Love,  alas,  I  have  called  to  love  and  it 
has  answered  me  with  lies.  I  am  done  with  that 
delusion.  It  is  nature's  trick  to  make  us  fools. 
[148] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

It  is  empty,  empty.  You  remember  you  gave  me 
a  message  at  parting  in  Venice.  Now  I  shall  give 
you  one.  (And  she  holds  out  her  hand  to  him) 
Store  up  the  gold  of  life  in  youth,  my  friend,  whilst 
you  can  still  believe  this  lie  that  men  call  love. 

ALFRED.     (Bending  over  her  hand  and  kissing  it) 
Good-bye. 

(And  he  goes  into  the  conservatory  and 

as  GEORGE  is  about  to  sit  down  on  the  long 

sofa  near  the  fireplace  she  sees  the  book  that 

PIETRO  has  dropped  and  she  picks  it  up) 

GEORGE.     (Perhaps  she  is  weeping  a  little.     She 

read  the  title)   "Lelia."    Faithful  to  the  last.    Finis. 

Finis.      (And  she   glances   toward   the  little  room 

through  which  PAGELLO  and  LUCREZIA  have  gone) 

Adieu,  Pagello !     (And  she  lets  the  little  book  fall  to 

the  table  and  then  she  looks  toward  the  conservatory 

through  which  DE  MUSSET  has  gone)    Adieu,  Freddo. 

(And  then  she  looks  into  the  fire  as  though  bidding 

a  last  farewell)     Adieu,  love! 

(And  she  sits  gazing  for  a  moment  into  the 
flame.  A  pause.  And  a  little  later  a  tremen 
dous  burst  of  applause  sounds  from  the  music 
room.  The  nocturne  is  finished.  Another 
sound  of  voices,  then  more  applause  and  then 
CHOPIN  bursts  in  from  the  music  room  fol 
lowed  by  LISZT  ;  and  the  three  young  girls  all 
aflutter  are  crowded  in  the  doorway.  From 
her  deep  seat  next  the  fireplace  GEORGE  is  al 
most  invisible) 

[149] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

CHOPIN.  (Irritable,  excited)  No,  no.  No  more. 
I'm  tired. 

LISZT.  The  humming  fools.  Give  them  the  B  Mi 
nor  Scherzo,  Frederick. 

CHOPIN.     No,  no.     No  more.     No  more. 

MLLE.  DE  ROLANDE  and  MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  Ah ! 
Ah! 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.  He's  probably  tired.  Look 
how  white  he  is. 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  Have  you  ever  heard  any 
thing  so  divine? 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.  Positively  beguiling,  my  dear. 
I- 

CHOPIN.  (Low  to  LISZT)  Get  them  away.  Get 
them  away. 

LISZT.  (With  exaggerated  politeness)  Ladies, 
your  pardon. 

(And  he  slowly  closes  the  door.  And  the 
three  desmoiselles  smk  back  into  the  music 
room. 

CHOPIN.  It  distresses  me  to  play  before  a  crowd 
like  that. 

LISZT.  Do  you  know  that  in  the  middle  of  'your 
most  beautiful  pianissimi  one  of  those  fat  hyenas 
sneezed  ? 

CHOPIN.     I  didn't  notice  it. 

LISZT.  (Amazed)  What,  why  I  hear  everything 
when  I  perform. 

CHOPIN.    I  like  best  playing  for  my  beloved  Poles. 
They  are  breathless  when  an  artist  plays. 
[150] 


[Act  HI]  MADAME  SAND 

(More  applause  from  the  next  room.  Then 
MLLE.  DE  FLEURY  and  MLLE.  ROLANDE  are 
back) 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY     (To  Chopin)     Monsieur,  the 
people  are  clamoring  for  you. 

CHOPIN.    Ladies,  you  must  excuse  me. 
MLLE.  ROLANDE.     But  we  beseech  you. 
CHOPIN.     You  must  pardon  me.     I  am  sorry  to 
refuse.      (And  as   he  turns   away  he  unknowingly 
drops     his     handkerchief.     The     applause     sounds 
again)     Franz,  for  God's  sake  go  in  and  appease 
them.     I  want  to  be  alone.     Alone. 

(And  the  two  girls  flutter  up  to  LISZT  with 
exclamations  of  admiration.  And  as  CHOPIN 
turns  from  them  barely  concealing  his  irrita 
tion,  MLLE.  DE  FLEURY  swiftly  lifts  his  hand 
kerchief  from  the  floor  and  with  a  look  as 
though  she  were  robbing  a  shrme  of  the  sa 
cred  "bambino,"  she  stuffs  the  precious  relic 
into  her  bodice  and  GEORGE  who  is  watching 
smiles.  This  is  unseen  by  all  the  others. 
MLLE.  ROLANDE  and  LISZT  are  at  the  door. 
Then  MLLE.  DE  FLEURY  joins  them,  and  as 
they  enter  the  music  room  LISZT  is  greeted 
with  a  salvo  of  approval.  The  door  is  closed 
and  then  CHOPIN  begins  walkmg  up  and 
down.  He  is  warm.  He  wants  to  mop  his 
brow.  He  is  nervous.  He  looks  at  a  picture. 
Then  again  for  his  handkerchief.  It  is  gone. 
This  increases  his  irritation.  He  sits  down, 

[151] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

still  feeling  in  his  pockets;  and  then — and 
it  sounds  as  if  it  came  from  nowheres — 
GEORGE  speaks.  And  as  she  does  so  CHOPIN 
jumps  up  not  knowing  from  whence  it  came) 

GEORGE.  Here,  take  mine.  (And  she  hands  him 
her  handkerchief) 

CHOPIN.  (Taking  it)  Ah,  you.  Thank  you, 
Madame. 

GEORGE.  Sit  down,  you  must  be  very  tired.  Sit 
down  and  rest. 

CHOPIN.     Yes.     Yes. 

GEORGE.  I  can't  imagine  anything  more  fright 
ful  than  having  to  face  a  room  of  people  like  that. 
It  must  be  so  much  more  wonderful  to  play  for  two 
or  three. 

CHOPIN.  I  like  best  to  play  for  only  one.  That 
is  when  I  can  "speak." 

GEORGE.     Yes — 

CHOPIN.  I  always  choose  some  one  to  whom  I 
play.  To-night  there  was  no  one  in  there  who  in 
terested  me. 

GEORGE.  Your  art  is  the  most  fragile  of  all  the 
arts.  It  is  born  of  the  moment  and  as  it  lives  it  dies. 

CHOPIN.  Yes.  Yes.  (He  begins  walking  about 
again) 

GEORGE.  Oh,  don't  be  alarmed,  I'm  not  going  to 
talk  music.  Would  you  like  some  champagne? 
Shall  I  call  a  lackey? 

CHOPIN.     No.     Let  us  sit  quietly  for  a  while. 

(And  they  do  so,  listening  to  the  music) 
[152] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

CHOPIN.  (After  a  moment)  That  is  a  beautiful 
melody  but  in  a  second  he  will  spoil  it  with  his  fire 
works. 

(GEORGE  doesn't  answer.  Then  after  a 
little  while  he  goes  on) 

CHOPIN.    I  have  never  read  any  of  your  books. 

GEORGE.     (Unconcerned)     No? 

CHOPIN.  No.  Listen !  Music  should  have  more 
soul  and  less  speed.  (A  pause)  You  do  not  answer 
me.  (Another  pause)  You  are  so  different  from 
other  women.  You  seem  to  know  how  to  be  still. 

GEORGE.     (Smiling)     I  am  listening  to  you. 

CHOPIN.     Some  day  I  will  come  and  play  for  you. 

GEORGE.     (Unmoved)     Yes? 

CHOPIN.  (A  bit  piqued  at  her  lack  of  enthusi 
asm)  I  do  not  do  that  often. 

GEORGE.     No,  I  am  sure  of  that. 

(There  is  another  pause.  Then  GEORGE 
speaks.  Something  stirs  in  the  ashes  of  her 
heart) 

GEORGE.  Why  have  you  avoided  me  since  you've 
been  in  Paris? 

CHOPIN.     I  was  afraid  of  you. 

GEORGE.  Afraid?  If  that  is  a  compliment  it  is 
too  roundabout. 

CHOPIN.  From  a  distance  you  seemed,  shall  I 
say —  (He  hesitates  for  a  word) 

GEORGE.     (Lightly)     Formidable. 

CHOPIN.  No — er —  (Then  he  gets  it)  compli 
cated. 

[153] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

GEORGE.     You  have  chosen  badly.     I  am  really 
very  simple.     (Then  with  a  shake  of  her  head  be 
cause  she  really  means  it )     Too  simple  for  my  good. 
(And  he  looks  at  her  and  she  turns  away 
and  gazes  into  the  fire.     Another  pause) 

CHOPIN.  Weren't  you  at  the  Marquis  de  Custine's 
last  Saturday? 

GEORGE.     (Almost  carelessly)    Yes. 

CHOPIN.     I  didn't  meet  you. 

GEORGE.     No,  I  left  early. 

CHOPIN.    But  women  always  want  to  meet  me. 

GEORGE.     You're  very  shy. 

CHOPIN.  I  thought  I  saw  you  looking  at  me  when 
I  was  playing. 

GEORGE.     And  so  beautifully — 

CHOPIN.    I  was  dreaming  of  some  one  long  ago. 

GEORGE.    Yes. 

CHOPIN.    Why  did  you  leave  so  early? 

GEORGE.     I  went  home  to  work. 

CHOPIN.     At  night. 

GEORGE.     Yes.     Till  four  in  the  morning. 

CHOPIN.  My  art  too  is  exacting.  Sometimes  I 
practice  ten  hours  a  day. 

GEORGE.  (As  she  glances  at  him,  she  is  thinking 
of  her  writing  but,  alas,  how  often  people  mean  one 
thing  and  say  another)  I  have  been  practicing  all 
my  life. 

CHOPIN,  One  of  these  days  I  must  read  some 
thing  you've  written. 

GEORGE.     Why? 
[154] 


[AM  III}  MADAME  SAND 

CHOPIN.      I  do  not  read  much. 

GEORGE.  There  are  too  many  books.  It  is  life 
that  really  matters.  (A  note  of  sadness  comes  into 
her  voice)  Life! 

CHOPIN.     You  are  sad,  Madame? 

GEORGE.     Alas,  my  friend,  I  have  suffered. 

(She  looks  at  him  tenderly,  then  back  into 
the  flames) 

CHOPIN.  (Slowly.  It  is  to  very  few  he  would  say 
this,  but  she  is  different)  I  understand,  Madame. 
I  too  have  lived. 

GEORGE.      (Expectantly)     Yes? 

(A  pause.    She  waits  for  him  to  go  on  but 
he  is  silent) 

GEORGE.  Some  day,  perhaps,  you  will  care  to 
tell  me? 

CHOPIN.  (Perhaps  he  is  a  little  embarrassed) 
Listen!  Liszt  is  playing  the  "Libestraum."  Less 
than  Beethoven — but  'twill  serve.  Listen ! 

GEORGE.  Yes.  You  are  right.  I  too  cannot 
abide  these  people  who  are  an  ^Eolian  harp  thru 
which  their  grief  is  forever  moaning.  (She  is  in 
danger.  She  is  beginning  to  forget  herself.  She 
glances  at  him.  He  is  listening  to  the  music)  It  is 
a  love  that  has  lasted  long,  my  friend?  (Her  hand 
is  on  his) 

CHOPIN.  Since  my  boyhood.  I  do  not  know  why 
I  tell  you  this.  t 

GEORGE.  (Very  tenderly)  That  is  the  only  love 
that  matters.  So  you  too  have  been  lonely. 

[155] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

CHOPIN.     I've  been  alone  for  all  my  life. 

GEORGE.  That  is  the  sad  melody  that  runs 
through  life.  We  are  forever  seeking  companion 
ship  whilst  in  reality  we  are  forever  alone,  alone. 

(And  her  voice  drifts  away  on  the  sweet 
sadness  of  the  word) 

CHOPIN.     Yes.    I  must  come  and  play  for  you. 

GEORGE.     I   shall  listen  with   my    soul. 

(A  little  flame  stirs  in  the  ashes.    Is  it  the 
spell  of  the  music  that  moves  her?) 

CHOPIN.     You  are  not  like  what  I  thought. 

GEORGE.     No? 

CHOPIN.  I  imagined  you  were  always  talking 
philosophy. 

GEORGE.  That's  what  the  world  thinks  of  liter 
ary  people.  The  truth  is  I  seldom  mention  books. 

CHOPIN.  Franz  told  me  that  you  were  the  clev 
erest  woman  in  Paris. 

GEORGE.     I  thought  he  was  my  friend. 

CHOPIN.  There  are  days  when  I  cannot  abide 
Paris  and  these  crowds  of  brilliant  people.  (He 
looks  towards  the  music  room) 

GEORGE.  Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean.  I  too 
have  felt  that.  Why  don't  you  go  away? 

CHOPIN.  I  would  but  though  I  dislike  people,  I 
don't  like  being  all  alone.  It  gives  me  a  feeling  of 
peace  to  know  there  is  some  one  to  whom  I  can  go — 
some  one  who  will  understand. 

GEORGE.      (For  the  first  time  looking  him  straight 
in  the  eyes)     Yes.     That  is  the  perfect  companion. 
[156] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

Some  one  you  know  is  there  and  still  never  feel 
about  you.  I  have  tried  many  but  all  have  failed, 
even  Alfred. 

CHOPIN.     Does  such  a  one  exist? 

GEORGE.     In  dreams  perhaps. 

(And  she  is  languorously  fanning  herself 
whilst  in  the  music  room  LISZT  plays  "The 
Lorelei") 

CHOPIN.     What  a  delicious  odor. 

GEORGE.  "Lily  of  Japan."  Pagello  bought  it 
for  me  in  the  Palais  Royal  with  his  last  two  francs. 
But  the  odor  was  too  strong  for  him.  That's  why 
he's  run  away  to  Venice. 

CHOPIN.  (Looking  at  her)  With  such  a  person 
far  away — 

GEORGE.  (Lightly  but  still  with  a  famt  sense  of 
suggestion)  In  a  blue  isle  in  the  Mediterranean 
shall  we  say?  I  too  have  been  dreaming  of  the 
South. 

CHOPIN.  (Smiling  back  at  her  fantasy)  Yes. 
Why  not?  The  Mediterranean — 

GEORGE.  (Leaning  back  a  little,  her  tongue  wet 
ting  her  lips  goes  on  with  the  delicious  nonsense) 
Where  the  tropic  palms  droop  in  the  odorous  shad 
ows  and  the  scarlet  flamingoes  sleep  in  the  sun. 

(She  likes  this  and  begins  jotting  it  down 
on  her  fan) 

CHOPIN.     What  are  you  doing? 

GEORGE.     (Almost  sprightly)     I  just  thought  of 

[157] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

what  I  must  order  for  luncheon  to-morrow.     (And 
she  repeats  as  she  writes} — scarlet  flamingoes. 

CHOPIN.     Flamingoes  for  lunch? 

GEORGE.  Why  not?  Perhaps  you  will  come  and 
dine  with  me. 

CHOPIN.  Perhaps.  You  are  the  one  woman  in 
Paris  who  doesn't  bore  me. 

GEORGE.  {Laughing)  What!  Go  back  to  your 
island,  my  friend. 

CHOPIN.  No.  Do  not  think  I  am  jesting.  If 
for  a  while  I  could  break  away  from  all  this  clever 
ness.  (And  again  he  waves  his  hand  with  a  gesture 
of  disgust  towards  the  music  room)  There  in  this 
mythical  island  I  could  realize  my  dreams  and  give 
to  the  world  all  the  music  that  struggles  and  mounts 
in  my  heart. 

GEORGE.  (Whimsically)  And  if  you  go  I  shall 
follow  you  and  lie  quietly  listening  among  the  ferns. 
(He  looks  at  her.  She  looks  back.  There  is  a  pause. 
Then  jestingly,  laughingly)  Or  perhaps  we  might 
go  together. 

CHOPIN.      (Slowly)     Why  not?     Why  not? 

GEORGE.  (Her  hand  again  touching  his.  Her 
voice  low)  Why  not?  (The  light  of  the  fire  shines 
about  them)  Some  day,  perhaps.  (Half  propheti 
cally,  half  in  subconscious  hope)  Some  day. 

(And  CHOPIN  sits  looking  at  her  and  she 
leans  back,  her  eyes  slightly  closed) 

CHOPIN.     I  am  so  tired. 
[158] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

GEORGE.  (Leaning  towards  him)  Shall  I  drive 
you  home? 

CHOPIN.  Would  you?  (And  he  smiles  at  her 
wanly,  sweetly) 

GEORGE.  Poor  boy,  you  are  very  tired,  aren't 
you?  (A  pause,  she  is  closer  to  him)  There  is 
something  about  you  so  like  my  little  son. 

CHOPIN.     Yes? 

GEORGE.  And  do  you  know  what  I  should  do 
if  you  were  he? 

CHOPIN.     No. 

GEORGE.     This,  my  poor  tired  child — this. 

(And  like  a  mother — indeed  love  and  the 
mother  in  her  are  mixed  beyond  comprehen 
sion — she  takes  him  m  her  arms  and  kisses 
him  and  the  next  instant  she  awakes  to  the 
calamitous  rashness  of  her  deed) 

GEORGE.  What  have  I  done?  What  have  I 
done?  Can  you  ever  forgive  me? 

CHOPIN.     (Bending  towards  her)     Why  not? 

GEORGE.  (Springing  up  as  once  before  she  has 
done  in  Venice)  Now  I  realize  it  all.  For  weeks 
the  ecstasy  of  your  music  has  sustained  my  fainting 
spirit.  All  the  while  I  have  loved  you,  loved  you 
as  I  have  never  loved  before,  loved  when  I  thought 
that  love  was  over  forever — and  I  haven't  known. 
And  now  that  I  have  told  you,  good-bye.  (She 
rushes  from  him) 

CHOPIN.  (His  voice  low)  Wait!  Wait!  You 
mustn't  leave  me  now,  now  at  the  beginning. 

[159] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

GEORGE.  (Struggling  with  her  heart)  No,  no. 
I  am  done  with  love.  I  have  prayed  to  love  and  it 
has  come  to  hurt  me.  No,  no.  Not  again,  not 
again.  I  am  through  with  love  forever. 

CHOPIN.  (His  arm  is  about  her)  This  is  the  be 
ginning.  We  have  found  each  other  in  our  loneli 
ness.  You  have  brought  peace  to  my  heart.  (His 
lips  are  close  to  hers)  George!  George,  nothing 
else  matters.  This  is  the  beginning. 

(And  he  kisses  her.  A  pause.  And  then 
she  breaks  from  him.  There  are  tears  in  her 
eyes.  For  a  moment  she  stands  watching 
him,  the  old  wonder  ever  new  breaks  in  her 
heart.  He  comes  over  to  her.  His  voice  is 
very  gentle) 

CHOPIN.  You  know  you  said  that  you  would 
drive  me  home. 

GEORGE.      (And  all  that  she  has  forgotten  and 
all  that  she  hopes  are  in  the  words)     You  mean? 
CHOPIN.     If  you  are  willing-— yes. 

(And  again  they  are  in  each  other's  arms. 
Tableau!  From  beyond  sounds  the  music. 
She  has  lost  her  head.  This  is  rash.  Some 
one  may  come  m.  She  breaks  away  from  him. 
He  follows  her) 

GEORGE.  (She  looks  about  her)  No,  no.  This 
is  not  the  Mediterranean.  There  are  too  many 
lackeys.  (She  steps  towards  the  door) 

CHOPIN.     But  aren't  you  going  to  drive  me  home? 
[160] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

GEORGE.     And  if  I  should  tell  the  coachman  to 
drive  to  this  island  in  the  sea? 

CHOPIN.    I  should  follow  you.    There  is  too  much 
art  in  Paris.    Come. 

GEORGE.      (Swiftly)      A    moment.     A    word    to 
Buloz  lest  he  wait  for  me. 

(And  impetuously  she  tears  out  the  fly  leaf 
from  the  copy  of  "Lelia"  lying  on  the  table 
and  scrawls  some  words  and  then) 
GEORGE.     Chopin,    we    may    be    driving    to    the 
world's  end. 

CHOPIN.     To  the  sound  of  music.     Come. 

(And   they   rush  out   as   very  cautiously 
from  the  music  room  enters  MLLE.  DE  LA- 
TOUR  with  her  autograph  album  in  her  hand 
followed  by  MLLE.  ROLANDE) 
MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.     (Looking  about)     Why,  I 
thought  she  was  in  here. 

MLLE.  ROLANDE.    Probably  they're  in  the  supper 
room. 

MLLE.  DE  LATOUR.     I'm  going  to  ask  her.     I  may 
never  see  her  again.     I  don't  care  what  Agnes  says. 
(And  they  run  out  through  the  little  draw 
ing-room  to  the  applause  which  sounds  from 
the  music  room  as  HEINE  opens  the  door  and 
comes  in) 
HEINE.     (Calling)     Frederick!    Where  is  he? 

(And  BULOZ  bustles  in  from  the  hatt) 
HEINE.    Where's  Chopin? 
BULOZ.     Gone ! 

,     [161] 


MADAME  SAND  [Act  III] 

HEINE.     Gone!     The    Baroness    was    hoping    he 
would  play  again.     Liszt  seems  tied  to  the  piano. 
Nothing  can  budge  him. 
BULOZ.    No. 

HEINE.  I'll  ask  George  to  read  a  chapter  of 
"Lelia"  (He  takes  the  book  from  the  table) ;  that 
will  quiet  him. 

BULOZ.     She's  gone. 
HEINE.     What?     She  too. 
BULOZ.     I  saw  them  leave  together. 
HEINE.     Together?     (He  looks  surprised) 
BULOZ.     Yes.     Why  not?     Can't  a  man  and  a 
woman  drive  from  a  party  without  the  world  com 
ing  to  an  end?     She  left  me  this.     (He  pomts  to 
the  note  m  his  hand)     It's  written  on  the  half  title 
of  "Lelia." 

HEINE.    Perhaps  you  can  print  it  in  the  Revue. 
BULOZ.     (With  a  quick  look)     Not  yet.    Read  it, 
Heine. 

(And  HEINE  does  so  and  in  his  amazement 
he  lets  the  note  flutter  to  the  floor) 
BULOZ.    And  how  long  this  time,  Heine? 
HEINE.    How  long?    How  long?    Does  it  matter? 
Think  of  the  copy  it  will  make  and  how  the  world 
will  revel  in  it.     And  now — let's  go  in  to  supper. 

(And  as  they  exit  MLLE.  DE  FLEURY  comes 
in  from  the  music  room  on  her  way  to  join 
MLLE.  DE  LATOUE  and  MLLE.  ROLANDE. 
Suddenly  she  sees  the  note  which  HEINE  has 
let  fall,  She  picks  it  up) 
U62] 


[Act  III]  MADAME  SAND 

MULE.  DE  FLEUBY.  (With  swimming  eyes  as  site 
reads  it)  "Good-night,  Buloz,  don't  wait  for  me. 
Life  is  love.  That's  all  that  matters.  I've  taken 
Chopin  home  to  put  the  poor,  tired  boy  to  bed." 

(And  she  clutches  the  note  to  her  trem 
bling  heart) 

MLLE.  DE  FLEURY.  (Tenderly,  lit  with  the  thrill 
ing  romance  of  it  all)  How  beautiful !  How  beau 
tiful! 

(And  the  curtain  falls  as  LISZT,  the  untir 
ing,  thunders  -from  the  music  room  the  be 
ginning  of  a  brilliant  Polonaise) 


[163] 


A  NOTE  ON  THE  MUSIC  FOR  "MADAME 
SAND" 

All  the  entr'acte  music  should  be  of  the  period  of 
the  play  but  the  overture  must  be  Mozart's  "Cosi 
Fan  Tutte."  The  Italian  title  of  this  sparkling 
music  when  rendered  into  the  balder  English  and 
reading,  "Thus  Do  All  Women,"  delicately  sug 
gests  that  George  is  not  the  only  member  of  her 
gentler  sex  who  might  have  acted  as  she  did.  In 
fact,  given  her  "talent"  perhaps  any  woman  would, 
that  is,  if  she  could. 

Chopin,  by  his  music,  is  to  be  subtly  anticipated 
throughout  the  comedy.  After  each  entr'acte  group, 
in  that  wonderful  moment,  when  the  lights  are 
dim,  echoes  of  his  music  should  be  heard;  for  the 
beginning  of  Act  I  the  gay  little  Posthumous  Ma 
zurka  in  F  Major,  for  the  beginning  of  Act  II  the 
languorous  Prelude  in  B  Flat,  Opus  28,  No.  21 ; 
and  for  Act  III  the  curtain  lifts  on  the  three  prat 
tling  demoiselles  to  the  charming  strains  of  the  little 
A  Major  Prelude. 

One  number  of  the  entr'acte  music  for  Act  II 
should  be  an  arrangement  of  a  group  of  the  tink 
ling  tunes  heard  throughout  the  Venice  episode  at 
the  "serenata"  which  is  supposed  to  be  in  full  swing 

[165] 


MADAME  SAND 

under  the  lovers'  window  on  the  Grand  Canal.  For 
Mrs.  Fiske's  production  authentic  melodies,  such  as 
one  hears  at  these  floating  concerts  in  Italy,  were 
used. 

Throughout  Act  III  Liszt  and  Chopin  are  heard 
in  the  music  room  improvising  on  themes  which 
later  in  their  careers  they  are  to  use  for  some  of 
their  most  famous  compositions.  During  George's 
first  meeting  with  Alfred,  after  the  ending  of  their 
love  affair  in  Venice,  we  hear  Chopin  playing  the 
second  theme  of  the  Posthumous  Valse  in  G  Flat, 
Opus  70,  No.  1.  During  her  farewell  scene  with 
de  Musset,  in  which,  out  of  her  broken  heart  she 
speaks  of  the  disillusionment  of  love,  Chopin  is 
heard  playing  the  G  Major  Nocturn,  Opus  37,  No. 
2.  The  sudden  break,  as  it  actually  occurs  in  the 
music,  is  used  to  denote  Chopin's  distress  and  comes 
just  at  the  moment  before  he  rushes  from  the  piano 
quite  unknowingly  into  George's  arms.  For  the 
opening  of  George's  love  scene  with  Chopin,  Jdszt, 
unconscious  of  what  is  taking  place  in  the  little 
drawing-room,  is  accompanying  the  dawning  love  of 
Chopin  and  George  to  the  romantic  strains  of  the 
third  "Liebestraum"  in  A  Flat.  Chopin's  words: 
"but  in  a  moment  he  will  spoil  it  with  his  fireworks," 
are  spoken  just  before  the  famous  pyrotechnic  fig 
uration  which  is  the  despair  of  all  amateurs  who 
lovingly  flay  the  "Liebestraum."  When  Chopin 
and  George,  in  this  crowded  world  of  Paris,  find  each 
other  in  their  loneliness,  Liszt  is  playing  the  theme 
[166] 


MADAME  SAND 

which  later  in  life  he  is  to  use  for  his  song  arrange 
ment  of  Heine's  "Lorelei" ;  and  as  the  comedy  ends 
and  Mile,  de  Fleury  presses  George's  tell-tale  note 
to  her  trembling  heart,  Liszt,  "because  no  one  has 
been  able  to  drag  him  from  the  piano,"  is  still  heard 
playing,  at  this  moment,  the  dazzling  opening 
phrases  of  his  second  Polonaise  in  E  Major. 


[167] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


2* 


Book  Slip-25m-7,'61(C1437s4)4280 


THE  LfBRARV 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNll 
LOS  AN6BLES 


UCLA-College  Library 

PS3525M722ma 


L  005  730  324  0 


College 
Library 

PS 
3*2$ 

M?22ma 


001  203  746    1 


